


No Reverence for Holy Things

by thensepia



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Blow Jobs, Comeplay, Drunk Derek, Future Fic, Hurt/Comfort, Incubus Stiles Stilinski, Incubus!stiles, M/M, Oral Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Stiles freaks out, Tattooed Stiles, Tattoos, dancefloor orgies, handjobs, mentions of character deaths, mysterious stiles, tattooed!stiles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-02
Updated: 2018-01-14
Packaged: 2018-02-11 11:55:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 25,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2067213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thensepia/pseuds/thensepia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Years later, living in San Francisco, Derek is shocked to run into Stiles at a bar. Stiles has grown up, for sure, but Derek can't help but think something else about Stiles has changed as well...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [xxxAthaelaxxx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxxAthaelaxxx/gifts).



> This is a (very, very) belated response to a request from xxxAthaelaxxx for a certain kind of Stiles fic.
> 
> I'll update tags as I post new chapters, so as not to spoil the whole thing from the beginning. I plan to update once a week until it's done.
> 
> And the rating is for where it's headed, not necessarily for this first chapter.
> 
> I hope you like it! This is my most ambitious fanfic project so far--fingers crossed it all works out as planned...

Shouldering open the door, Derek pauses for a moment as he lets his eyes and ears adjust. It’s a Tuesday night at the club, so it’s more sedate than usual, but it’s still a club and San Francisco isn’t strictly on a weekend schedule anyway. The dance floor is sparsely populated, but there are nonetheless several bodies writhing and pressing against one another to something heavy on the BPM and bass. Derek watches for a moment before moving off toward the back of the club to the bar. It too is much emptier than normal, but then that’s why Derek came out on a Tuesday—to avoid the overwhelming weekend crush of bodies and scents and the sensory overload that comes with them. 

Taking a stool near the corner of the bar, he makes eye contact with the bartender and tips his head at him.The bartender smiles at him as he makes his way over to Derek, sliding a bar mat in front of him. 

“The usual?” he asks as Derek slips out of his leather jacket. 

“Please.” The bartender pours Derek two shots of Blanton’s in a glass over ice. “Thanks, Ben,” Derek says, handing over his debit card. 

“You got it,” the bartender says, moving away to serve another customer.

Derek picks up the drink and cups it in his hand, enjoying the weight of the glass and the coldness of it against his hot palm. He brings it to his face and inhales the sweet, dark smell of bourbon before taking a sip and letting it wash across his tongue. He could drink at home easily enough, but these days he likes coming out and being around people, even if he seldom engages with anybody other than the bartender. He gets hit on sometimes, people brave enough to push past his solitude offering to buy him drinks or asking him to dance, and he has occasionally taken them up on it, but he’s long since discovered that casual, no-strings-attached sex isn’t really for him, even if the other person _doesn’t_ turn into some kind of evil supernatural creature afterward. 

He’s learning, okay?

His eyes sweep the room, taking in the bodies on the dance floor, the people coupled off at tables and the ones more occupied lingering near the walls and corners. Two girls are kissing at the bar before one knocks her drink back and takes the other’s hand, dragging her to the dance floor as the music changes to something less frantic and more sexy. Turning back to his drink, Derek takes another sip of whiskey and enjoys the sweet burn of it. Thanks to his werewolf metabolism he can’t get drunk on regular booze, but he likes the taste anyway, the dark caramel and the spice and the way it warms the inside of his chest, even for a minute. He watches as people talk and laugh, watches how easily they stand close together, how casually one reaches out to touch the other on the shoulder, the arm, the small of the back, ready smiles and the ever-present smell of curiosity and arousal and hope curling around them, floating in eddies on the currents their bodies carve out of the air. He knows he’s a loner, has been ever since he left Beacon Hills, and he envies how simple it seems for other people to reach outside themselves and make connections. He has good reasons not to—not only because trying has gone so badly for him in the past, but because he has to hide his true nature from almost everybody—but despite the fact that he is living a life he deliberately carved out for himself, he still feels that small pocket of emptiness, the inescapable lack. It’s not made of sharp edges, and it’s a hole he can usually walk around. Hanging out in a bar and watching people couple—or triple—off makes him more aware of it, makes the settling of it in his chest more acute. But then, he muses as he finishes his drink and signals for another, that’s kind of the point—to be around people, to remind himself what that means, to keep him from retreating into full-fledged hermitude. It’s like picking at the edge of something, the need to fuss at it and see how fast it’s really stuck.

Ben comes over and refills his drink and Derek nods his thanks, giving him a small smile. He leans his elbows on the bar and swirls the whiskey around the glass before taking another drink, letting the smell push out the press of sex around him for a moment, closing his eyes and inhaling deeply.

“Derek Hale. As I live and breathe.”

Startled, Derek spins around, and standing only a few feet away is Stiles. He stares at Stiles, who is waiting with his hands shoved in his jacket pockets and a huge grin on his face. He looks much the same, totally recognizable, but all the details are different. Most of all, Derek is shocked that Stiles was able to get so close to him without Derek recognizing his smell, or the unique rabbit-like beat of Stiles’s heart, but as his senses catch up from his state of shock, he realizes Stiles _smells_ different, _sounds_ different—again, familiar, but not exactly. Stiles finally clears his throat, covering his mouth with one hand and letting out a little fake cough that brings Derek back to himself and makes him realize he’s been staring at Stiles with his mouth hanging open.

“Stiles. How…how are you?” he asks, only stammering slightly. Stiles’s eyebrows shoot up and his lips quirk into a familiar smirk, and Derek smiles then, a real smile, his awkwardness and shock melting away.

“Good, man. You?”

“I’m….I’m good. Wanna sit? Or are you with someone?” Derek asks, scooping his jacket off the seat beside him.

“No, just me.” He slides into the offered seat, and Derek can’t help but notice that Stiles’s nervousness, the barely-controlled energy that was always threatening to spill over isn’t there. Instead, he seems at ease, self-possessed and sure. 

Derek signals to Ben again, and asks Stiles, “What are you drinking?”

“Makers on the rocks,” Stiles says, sliding out of his jacket. Derek is distracted again as his arms appear from the jacket.

Because Stiles has _tattoos_. 

 A _lot_ of tattoos. 

They slip out underneath the sleeves of his black t-shirt, curls and drips of black ink tracing across his biceps and down toward his elbows, swathes of reds and purples and teals like watercolor on paper worked into the intricate design. He can see the very edge of one peeking out of the v-neck as well, a few small tendrils, enough to drive home that his entire shoulder must be covered in the design. Derek’s never seen anything like it, and he wants to push Stiles’s sleeves up, rip the shirt from his shoulder and see the whole thing, trace the lines on his skin. It’s that thought that makes him realize he’s been staring again, and he lifts his eyes to meet Stiles’s. He’s smiling at Derek, kinder than Derek expected, a soft, fond look on his face rather than the challenge Derek found himself braced for. Stiles raises his glass instead, holds it out toward Derek, and after a beat Derek raises his as well, clinking it against the rim of Stiles’s glass. They both take a drink, and he can’t help but notice how Stiles closes his eyes for just a second, rolls his bottom lip under his teeth, savoring the taste. 

“So, yeah. I got tattoos,” Stiles says with a smile, staring into his glass, swirling the ice around. 

A laugh punches out of Derek. “Yeah, you did.”

“You living in San Francisco?” Stiles asks. He swivels in his seat toward Derek, putting an elbow on the bar and leaning toward him. Derek can see ink on the inside of the arm propped on the bar too, disappearing in shadow up into his sleeve.

Derek shakes his head lightly, trying to focus. “Yeah, in the Mission. You?”

Stiles laughs, and it’s a good sound, bright and clean. “I’m in the Haight. We’re practically neighbors. What’re the odds?” he asks, bumping Derek’s knee with his own.

Derek swallows hard, laughs weakly. The music has changed again, something electropop-y and relentless. He feels almost panicky, overwhelmed, like he can’t catch up to everything that’s happened in the last few minutes. It’s too loud and too full and _Stiles_ is here, the warmth of him _right beside him_ , the not-quite-familiar smell of him filling Derek’s head. He looks down at his drink and shuts his eyes, tries to let that molasses-thick feeling slip away, trying to breathe steadily, reminding himself to press the air in and out of his lungs.

He feels a warm hand on his arm, just below his elbow, and opens his eyes. Stiles is leaning forward, his eyebrows drawn down. “Are you okay?” he asks softly, gently, as if he’s afraid Derek is going to bolt. Derek concentrates on the warmth of Stiles’s fingers, of the soft whiskey-tinged exhalation of his words, and he feels some of the tension drain away.

“Yeah.” Derek draws a shaky breath. “Yeah, sorry, I’m okay. It’s just…overwhelming to see you.”

Stiles squeezes his arm and lets his hand slip away. “I get that more than you know,” he jokes, obviously trying to lighten the mood, and Derek does laugh. 

“Have you eaten?” Stiles asks abruptly, and Derek shakes his head no. “Okay, then. Finish your drink and let’s go grab some dinner. There’s a great ramen shop a couple of blocks from here. That is… if you want to,” he says, staring intently at his drink for the last part like he’s giving Derek the space to say no.

“Yes. I mean… yeah. Let’s do that,” Derek says, and Stiles smiles up at him and then drains his drink, reaching for his wallet. “I’ve got it,” Derek says, touching Stiles on the wrist and then looking up to find the bartender to tab out. Ben runs his card and gives Derek a knowing smile as he slides him the receipt, one that Derek sees Stiles totally catch. 

Apparently Stiles hasn’t changed entirely, because he slides his arm around Derek in an exaggerated manner and says, “Come on, you hot piece of ass,” tugging him toward the door as they go. 

Derek snorts and shakes his head, and once they’re outside in the relative quiet of the street, Derek crooks an eyebrow at Stiles and echoes, “Hot piece of ass?”

“Hey, I was just trying to sell it for your overprotective barkeep friend.” Stiles laughs again and pulls on his jacket. “So. Food. Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Derek slips on his jacket and stuffs his hands in the pockets. He feels better out here in the crisp fall air, less on edge, less trapped. 

“This way,” Stiles gestures, setting off down the street. “Still rocking the leather jacket, huh, big guy?”

“Still rocking the smart mouth?” Derek retorts, but there’s no fire in it.

Stiles laughs, and the sound pleases him. “Obviously.” 

They fall into step side by side, cresting a hill and turning down the next block. A silence settles over them, but it’s not unpleasant. It feels…not like home, not really, but familiar nonetheless. It’s surprisingly comfortable. Derek is sneaking glances at Stiles as they walk, noticing how he’s filled out and winnowed down, the soft edge of youth erased to reveal the leaner lines of adulthood. They’re almost the same height and they match pace easily. Though Stiles is still leaner, his shoulders are just as wide as Derek’s; for the first time, Derek is aware of how close in size they actually are. His hair has grown out enough that Derek can see a hint of curl in it that he never knew was there. He’s dressed well, nice dark jeans over soft leather boots, that black t-shirt that dips down below his collarbone. Overall… Stiles looks _good._ He’s put together and restrained. Derek can still feel the familiar energy buzzing off Stiles, but for the first time it’s not making him flail about or trip over things. He moves with purpose, instead, deliberately, his arms swinging easily at his sides as they walk.

“Here it is,” Stiles says, turning to pull open a door and gesturing for Derek to enter. He does, and the warm smell of spices and broths and garlic hit him, making him realize how hungry he is. Stiles hugs the hostess and exchanges a few words with her, she smiles back at Derek and leads them immediately to a small table in a corner, leaving them menus.

“You know her?” Derek asks, watching her walk away.

“Yeah, that’s Mara. She’s roommates with a guy I dated for a while before I moved here. He moved here after I did, and we’re still friends.”

For some reason, this comforts Derek. “So… you’re bi, then?” he asks, looking intently down at his menu, feeling awkward and embarrassed for asking.

Stiles laughs, though whether at the question or at Derek’s discomfort, he’s not sure. “Yeah. Though I’ve dated mostly guys since I moved away from Beacon Hills.” A dark look passes across his face. “Nobody for a while, though. Not since I moved to San Francisco.”

Derek closes his menu and leans forward, elbows on the table. “Where were you before?”

Stiles shrugs out of his jacket, hanging it on the chair as he answers. “L.A.”

“Yeah, I heard you went to college there.”

Stiles looks surprised. “How did you know?”

“I go back to Beacon Hills once a year. Ran into your dad once. He told me.”

“Once a year, huh?” Stiles asks, fussing with his chopsticks and napkin, not looking at Derek. “Anniversary of the fire?”

Derek leans back in his chair. He looks at Stiles, and says softly, “No. Mom’s birthday.” 

Stiles looks up at him then, gives him a sad smile. “Me too, actually.” He closes his menu as well and takes a deep breath, blowing it out exaggeratedly. Their legs are crowded in together underneath the small table, and Stiles presses his knee into the side of Derek’s; if it’s intentional or not, Derek can’t tell, but he is starting to feel overwhelmed again. Cities have a tendency to dull his senses anyway, just because of the vast quantity of input, but he can’t smell Stiles’s mood with any clarity and it’s sort of freaking him out. He’s staring down at the table and can feel his eyebrows knitting together as the waiter comes over to take their order; Stiles orders something Derek doesn’t recognize, and then leans over the table to touch Derek’s arm. He looks up and the waiter is watching him expectantly.

“Oh. Um… I’ll take the same,” he says, unable to remember anything on the menu. Stiles squeezes his arm and leans back and the waiter clears their menus. At some point glasses of water have appeared on the table and Derek reaches for his, draining half of it at once. 

“Derek.” 

He looks up, and Stiles is looking at him intently, an undecipherable look on his face. “Are you okay?” he asks, worry evident in voice.

He clears his throat. “Yeah. Yeah, sorry.” He rubs a palm down his face, scratches at the stubble there, takes a deep breath. “I know I’m being weird. Sorry.”

“What’s wrong?” Stiles asks. “Do you want me to go?”

“No!” Derek says, maybe a little too forcefully, but it makes Stiles smile nonetheless. “I just…you _smell_ different,” he mumbles, and Stiles leans forward, elbows on the table.

“What was that?”

Derek leans forward too, enunciates better. “I said you _smell_ different.”

“Still good at using your words, huh?” Stiles teases.

“Sorry…I. Sorry. I’m not around people that much any more,” he says, looking down at his hands, feeling desperate and off-kilter. He’s screwing this up but he doesn’t know how to stop.

“Derek, man. Stop apologizing. It’s okay.” Stiles slides his leg against Derek’s, and this time it’s clearly deliberate, his whole leg from thigh to ankle pressing alongside Derek’s. It helps, though—it grounds Derek, anchors him, and he starts to feel less panicky. “I’m just glad to see you. Though I’m confused how you’re not around people much if you live in one of the biggest cities in the U.S. and clearly aren’t agoraphobic,” he says, smiling.

“I _see_ people,” Derek tries to explain. “I just don’t… deal with them much.”

“What about a pack?” Stiles asks, leaning forward and dropping his voice.

Derek shakes his head. “After I left Beacon Hills, I looked for one for a while, spent some time with Cora’s, but… I just never fit. That’s mainly why I moved to the city—it’s easier to not have a pack in such a crowded place. Cities are generally neutral territory.”

That dark shadow passes over Stiles again. “L.A. wasn’t.”

Derek raises his eyebrows. “No, it’s not. I’ve heard there are three packs there, and that they’re very territorial.”

“Understatement.” The corners of Stiles’s mouth are turned down.

“Did…did they give you trouble?”

“If I stayed near school, it was okay and I was left alone. I guess schools are kind of hallowed ground, like in _The Highlander.”_

“The what?” Derek asks, confused.

“I see you never got Netflix, huh?” Stiles says, running his hand through the hair at the back of his neck, a gesture so familiar to Derek that he feels gutpunched. “Anyway, I was glad to get out of there. Bad juju.”

“Are you still training as an emissary?” Derek asks, remembering the epic tutoring sessions with Deaton.

“No.” Stiles says it with a peculiar finality. “How long has it been since we’ve seen each other, Derek?”

Derek thinks for a minute. “Six… no, seven years. Jesus. Seven years.” He looks up at Stiles. “How has it been seven years?” he asks, frowning. Now that he is thinking about it, he doesn’t understand where all that time went.

Stiles puts his elbows on the table as well, cradles his chin in his hands and looks down at Derek’s hands. “I don’t know, man. In some ways, it feels like seven minutes ago… in others, it feels like seven lifetimes.”  He runs his hands back through his hair, cradles the back of his neck and looks at Derek. “You seem both totally familiar, and like a total stranger at the same time.” 

Derek meets his gaze, holds it. He feels something happening, the world narrowing down to this table, the background all falling away. He’s stricken by the sheer and utter improbability of running into Stiles the way he has, and because of that awareness he feels grateful for it. Stiles is watching him intently, his pupils wide and chasing out the golden amber that rings them. Derek takes in the moles that dot up the side of his face, the parted arch of Stiles’s lips, the sweet slope of his nose.  Derek knows this is the moment to act, finally, after all these years; this is the moment to let everything he’s felt for so long surface, because he’s damn lucky to have gotten this chance, and he knows there probably won’t be another.  He can feel something inside him unfurling, stretching, and instead of shutting it down, pulling away from it, he leans into it, leans across the table toward Stiles.

“We’re both here now,” he says quietly, knowing Stiles will hear him. “And I don’t want us to be strangers any more.” As the words leave his mouth he brings one hand up to the side of Stiles’s face, cups the hinge of his jaw in his fingers and leans forward to close the distance between them, sliding his lips over Stiles’s. 

Stiles freezes, grows preternaturally still for a heartbeat, just enough time for Derek to think _What have I done?_ before Stiles lets out a stifled moan and just _melts_ against Derek’s lips, leaning into him and tilting his head to meet Derek’s kiss. Derek licks gently at the corner of Stiles’s mouth and Stiles eagerly opens under him, their tongues meeting and sliding against one another, both their mouths tasting of whiskey and heat. Stiles’s hand slides up Derek’s leg under the table, hooks under his knee and pulls at Derek as if pulling him closer, and it’s Derek’s turn to moan as Stiles sucks Derek’s bottom lip into his mouth and sets his teeth against it, dragging it between them and then licking away the sting. Now Derek can smell Stiles, smell his arousal like something dark and sweet that he wants to devour. He’s already hard in his jeans and he wants to press himself all over Stiles, mingle their scents until they become one. Stiles finally pulls away, breathing hard and squeezing Derek’s leg. He’s flushed, his lips pink and kiss-swollen, and Derek thinks in a tiny proud voice, _I did that._ He can feel the flush in his own face as well, and wonders if he looks as dazed as he feels. 

“Fuck, Derek. _Fuck.”_ He leans back in, kisses Derek again, deeper, his hand wrapping around the back of Derek’s neck to pull him to him, lips and teeth and tongues clashing together like they aren’t in the middle of a restaurant surrounded by people. Stiles pulls back just enough to murmur against his lips, “ _Why the fuck haven’t we been doing this for years?”_

Derek has no answer, so he just kisses Stiles again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: There are nonspecific mentions of character deaths here. It's in the past, but it's referenced, so be warned. 
> 
> I didn't realize exactly what I was going to do here, but then it happened, and all I can say is I'M SORRY. I am apparently a terrible person and am addicted to manpain? (I blame my love for Supernatural for that, I really do.)
> 
> Stiles's tattoo is a composite of things in these two styles: http://helenflynn.files.wordpress.com/2009/02/l_07f3f51e53d54dc8a9cc094ac177fe871.jpg?w=184&h=300 
> 
> and 
> 
> http://37.media.tumblr.com/481e3122c43b110657ab1702123275b0/tumblr_mxtknznDwS1qhwdo9o1_500.jpg
> 
> except, you know, more elaborate.
> 
> Again, sorry. IT WILL ALL MAKE SENSE IN THE END. And that end is probably 12K+ words further away than I thought it would be...

Derek’s entire awareness of the world has been reduced to the soft, wet press of Stiles’s lips and tongue, the pressure of his hands at his neck and leg, the table pressing into his chest as they lean into one another across it. Somewhere inside his shocked elation and this great swelling feeling inside his chest, he absently registers the sound of a throat clearing. He slowly pulls back from Stiles to find the waiter standing there with two bowls, and Stiles laughs, squeezing the back of Derek’s knee under the table as he slides back into his seat. Derek leans back as well, feeling the flush in his face, and the waiter deposits their order and beats a quick retreat. Stiles looks at Derek from across the table, a small smile turning the corners of his kiss-swollen lips upward. Derek can see the jump of Stiles’s pulse at the base of his throat, can almost roll the smell of their mutual arousal around on his tongue.

Stiles clears his throat. “I’d suggest we just leave some cash on the table and get out of here, but the ramen here is awesome and I’m actually really hungry,” he says apologetically. 

Derek smiles, a genuine smile with teeth and everything. “It’s okay, Stiles. Eat.” He picks up his own spoon and dips into the dark broth, swirling the noodles and egg and mushrooms around before bringing a spoonful to his mouth, and he’s surprised by the complex, earthy taste of the dish. Stiles dives in as well, switching off between spoon and chopsticks to devour his meal. As they eat, they chat back and forth about the food and the city, and it’s easier than Derek would have expected. When the waiter comes back by to check on them, Stiles orders some sake for them both, and after they finish the meal they both sit leaning in toward one another, their legs tangled together underneath the table, hands cradling the _ochoko_ cups side by side on the tabletop. The cups are heated and the sake is bright in Derek’s mouth as he drinks, the sharp bite of alcohol softening into warmth and sweetness as it slides down his throat. He watches as Stiles drinks, the bob of his throat as he swallows, the hint of his tongue as it chases the taste from his lips. The edge of that tattoo is peeking out from the v-neck collar of his t shirt again, and Derek reaches out to brush his fingers over the edge of it before he even realizes what he’s doing. Stiles’s eyes go wide and then narrow down, his gaze growing hooded and dark, and his tongue slips out and presses against his upper lip as he watches Derek. Derek starts to pull his hand away but Stiles catches it in his own, presses it harder to his chest and closes his eyes, lets out a tiny moan that Derek would have missed if his hearing wasn’t so good. 

When Stiles opens his eyes again, his irises are almost gone, his pupils huge and dark and infinite. Derek feels his cock twitch in his pants, his hand tingling where Stiles is holding it to his chest. “Now. Let’s get out of here,” Stiles says, and Derek can feel the rumble of the words against his palm. He nods dumbly, and Stiles slides back in his seat, pulls out his wallet and tosses too much cash on the table before reaching out for Derek’s hand. Derek takes it and grabs his jacket, subtly trying to hold it in front of himself to cover his erection; Stiles notices and smiles as they thread their way through tables, and Derek sees Stiles is hard too, a long, elegant line stretching the front of his jeans, but Stiles moves through the crowd with no self-consciousness whatsoever. Stiles’s fingers are interlaced with his, cool against his skin, and Derek can’t look away from the swing of Stiles’s hips as they make their way to the door. Once they are outside Derek shrugs his jacket on and then spins Stiles around and presses him into the brick, crowds into his space and slides his hands along the waist of Stiles’s jeans, slips his fingertips under the hem of his t shirt as he buries his face in the side of Stiles’s neck and inhales, filling himself with Stiles’s smell, the near-familiar scent that promises things like _sex_ and _heat_ and _home._ It’s a heady combination, and Derek knows not to trust it, not yet, but he can’t help but breathe deep again as he runs his nose along the arch of Stiles’s neck, feeling like hope is a burning thing inside him.

Stiles gasps, lets out a shaky breath, his hands running up Derek’s sides and one sliding around behind his neck to thread through the short hair there. “I’d almost forgotten about werewolves and their scenting fetish,” he groans, his fingertips digging into the nape of Derek’s neck, pulling him tighter into his body. Derek lets out a small growl, nips at Stiles’s neck with his teeth, runs his tongue lower across the ink peeking out under his collarbone. When he nips Stiles there, Stiles’s hips jerk forward, his cock rubbing against Derek’s, and Stiles grabs Derek by the shirt and spins them lightning-fast until he has Derek pressed up with his back to the wall. Derek gasps this time, surprised by the speed and strength of the motion, but Stiles presses their hips together again as he grasps Derek by the jaw and licks into his mouth, and Derek loses all thoughts that aren’t about the way Stiles is kissing him, wet and filthy and a little possessive. Stiles crowds into Derek, arching his hips to press them together, boxing Derek in with his arms and rolling his tongue along Derek’s before sucking on it, biting down on the tip gently as he hums a small satisfied sound against Derek’s mouth. 

“Get a room!” he hears behind them, a group of twenty-somethings laughing and hooting as they pass them and crowd into the ramen shop. 

Stiles kisses Derek once more, slowly and deliberately, and then whispers right against Derek’s ear, “I think that’s a great idea, don’t you?” It sends shivers down Derek’s neck and he grasps at Stiles’s hips, nods silently. Stiles takes his hand and leads him down to the end of the block where he flags a cab. Stiles holds the door open for Derek to slide in and Stiles follows after, pressing their legs together, his hand resting possessively on Derek’s knee. “The Mission is closer,” Stiles says, nodding toward the driver, running that hand higher up Derek’s thigh and squeezing.

Derek huffs out a breath. “511 Capp Street,” he tells the cabbie, leaning his head back against the seat and trying to calm down his breathing. Stiles just takes it as an invitation, though, pressing his lips to the exposed skin of Derek’s neck, licking his way up toward Derek’s ear where he rolls Derek’s earlobe between his teeth. His hand has slid up Derek’s leg and under his shirt, pressing cool against the hot skin of Derek’s stomach, his fingertips tracing patterns along Derek’s ribs. “Stiles,” Derek breathes out, turning his face to catch Stiles in another kiss. He can’t believe how different his life feels than it did just an hour ago, can’t believe that Stiles is here with him, on his way to Derek’s house. He feels too big for his skin, feverish and shivery and blind with want. He doesn’t know _what_ he wants, exactly, there’s just the abstract floating feeling of _want_ and _Stiles_ crashing into one another inside him. He feels the car slow to a stop and fumbles for his wallet while still kissing Stiles, tosses double the amount on the meter across the seat and mumbles thanks to the driver while pulling Stiles out of the car behind him. 

“Not too shabby, Hale,” Stiles says, taking in the gray and white Victorian in front of them. Derek grunts, pulls Stiles toward the steps. “Really,” Stiles says, “it’s a big step up from a burned out shell or a loft with a giant hole in the wall.” 

“Let me show you the inside. It has a _bed_ ,” Derek says drily, and Stiles just laughs, finally lets Derek pull him up the stairs and inside the door. 

As soon as Derek closes the front door though, Stiles presses him into it, his hands pushing Derek’s shoulders back against the glass. Stiles slots one leg between his, rolls his hips against Derek’s, fists his hands in Derek’s shirt and kisses him hard. Grasping Derek by the shirt, he suddenly spins them again, backing him against the opposite wall this time, pushing his body into him. He spreads one hand across the front of Derek’s throat, barely pressing, the other sliding through Derek’s hair and pulling at it. Stiles kisses him again, his mouth insistent against Derek’s, hips dragging their cocks together in a too-slow rhythm. Derek likes the way Stiles is handling him, rough and possessive; it surprises him, but he likes it, likes the way Stiles is surging into his space, because it makes Derek feel like Stiles _wants_ to be there, like maybe he feels as desperate for this as Derek does.  Stiles has him by the jaw, tilting Derek’s head the way he wants it in order to explore Derek’s mouth, pushing him back into the wall with his forearms and hips. 

“Remember this, Derek?” he asks, pressing harder against Derek for emphasis. He bites his way down Derek’s jawline, little nips of Stiles’s teeth against the stubble. Derek groans, clutches at Stiles’s hips, but Stiles grabs Derek by the wrists and pins them to the wall beside his head instead, the strength in his grip evident even though Derek lets him do it. He leans in close, whispers against Derek’s ear, the soft puffs of breath tickling across his skin. “Remember all those walls you pressed me into? How you would crowd into me, push up against me?” 

Stiles licks up the curve of Derek’s ear, and Derek lets out a small moan. “Remember how you would hold me there with all that strength? Pin me with your hips and your arms, _threaten_ me?” Stiles bites Derek just behind the ear, and Derek gasps. “Could you smell it, then? How turned on I was? How hard you made me?” Stiles rolls his hips as if to drive his point home. He leans back to look at Derek, and his pupils are blown wide and inky. Derek is achingly hard in his jeans, can feel a hot, wet mess of precome sticking the material of his briefs to him. Stiles still has his wrists in his grasp, and he squeezes them now, pushes his hips into Derek again, and asks, his voice voice low and dark and dangerous, “Could you smell how much I wanted you, Derek?”

“ _Fuck,_ Stiles.” It’s almost a whine.

Stiles leans closer. “Could you?” he demands, his voice barely audible, his lips hovering over Derek’s. 

Derek shudders. “ _Yes_. Yes, Stiles, I could smell it. I could hear the uptick of your heartbeat when I would get near you. See your hard cock under all those layers of clothes. And I could _smell_ you, desperate, and wanting, and _leaking_ all over yourself.” Derek presses up off the wall then, as far as Stiles’s body will let him go, sliding himself against Stiles, thrusting his hips up into him. “But half the time,” he says, his voice dropping as well, his eyes locked onto Stiles’s, “I couldn’t smell _your_ arousal over _mine_.”

Stiles’s eyes widen, his mouth going slack as he takes this in. It must be a trick of the light, but  Derek can’t see his irises at all—in the shadow of the foyer, it looks like Stiles’s eyes have gone entirely dark, whites and all. But then Stiles is moving, a small, strangled noise escaping him as he drops Derek’s wrists and wraps his arms around him, pulling Derek close and rucking up his shirt to slide hands up the skin of his back, his lips ghosting over Derek’s gently, soft, fervent kisses replacing the aggressiveness of before. Derek returns the kiss, lightly cupping the sides of Stiles’s face like he is something delicate.

“Bedroom?” Derek asks, and he hears the breathy quality of his own voice as he speaks.

“Bedroom,” Stiles agrees, running his hands up under Derek’s jacket, sliding it down his shoulders and letting it fall to the floor. He takes his own off and drops it on top of Derek’s, and Derek catches him by the hand to lead him upstairs. They finally make it up the staircase after several pauses to kiss and touch and to crowd one another into the walls and the railing, hands grasping and sighs traded back and forth between their joined mouths. Derek spins Stiles into the first room on the left, presses him up against the wall just inside the door and slides his hands up Stiles’s chest, dips back down to grasp the hem of his shirt and pulls it off over his head. There’s enough light spilling in the window that he can see Stiles’s tattoos, some of the colors muted but the swirls and dips of them visible, contrasted against his pale skin. 

He has ink rising up from his waistband along his left hip and side, but it’s the tattoos spilling down Stiles’s right arm and shoulder that he wants to see, the ones he couldn’t make sense of with the shirt on. Derek reaches out a tentative hand, runs his fingers across the designs, traces the outline of one of the figures as it spills down Stiles’s chest and curls back up toward his collarbone. It’s an elaborate composite of figures, shadowed birds becoming light flying up over the cap of his shoulder, an outline of a stylized wolf with a background that looks watercolor, dark browns and reds underneath the outline. The wolf’s gold eyes look up toward a fox that is curled alongside it, the same watercoloring filling in the outline in brighter reds and golds. The fox’s tail is wrapped around a nocked bow and arrow; the arrow tip explodes into butterflies as it curls up the side of Stiles’s chest and over his pectoral. The butterflies curve over and around, just skirting his nipple and arching up to his clavicle, dissolving into the whorls and halftone dots and curlicues that Derek saw peeking out of his collar earlier. As he delicately traces the loops and lines, Stiles drops his head back against the wall and swallows hard, baring the long line of his neck to Derek. Derek brushes the backs of his fingers over the wolf, along the string of the bow, and suddenly the significance of it all hits him so hard his knees actually go weak.

“It’s a tribute, isn’t it?” Derek asks quietly, his voice small in the dark room. Stiles nods, his eyes closed, and Derek tries to swallow against the lump in his throat. Here, inked on the body of the person he’s longed for all this time is a memoriam to everyone he failed, to the reasons he’s carefully crafted this life of solitude and routine. He feels like he can’t breathe again, but for a totally different reason, and he drops his hand to his side, stares at the ink pushed into Stiles’s skin, and it all starts to blur as his eyes tear up. He stumbles across the room to the bed, sits down on the edge and pushes the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to push away the tears along with the memories that are suddenly suffocating him.

“Derek.” Stiles’s voice is right above him, and then he feels a cool hand on the back of his neck, fingers splayed out to cup the back of his head. “Derek, look at me.” Stiles pushes his hands away and grasps his jaw with the other hand, tipping Derek’s face back until he meets his eyes. “Stop, okay? Just stop. It’s in the past.” He runs his thumb along Derek’s cheek to wipe away the tear there, and his eyes look so earnest it makes Derek’s stomach roll.

“I failed them,” Derek says quietly, and it sounds hollow and empty and like _never enough,_ the same way it has for the last seven years.

“No, you _didn’t_. Or fuck, maybe we both did. But we did what we could at the time, Derek. You gave them your best, okay?” Stiles lets out a sigh. “Have you been carrying this around all this time?” 

Derek shrugs with one shoulder, and Stiles slides to his knees, grasps Derek by the arms. “You’ve got to let it go, man.”

“Stiles, you have them all _inked on you_ ,” he says. “How is that letting go?”

Stiles narrows his eyes, and Derek can tell he struck a nerve. “Goddammit, Derek. _Remembering_ is not the same as _wallowing in it._ They wouldn’t have wanted that. Jesus.” Stiles is angry now, and he pushes his way between Derek’s knees, crowds into him. “I’ve grieved for them, Derek, I really have, but if you’re lucky enough, life keeps on happening.” Stiles picks Derek up under his knees and throws him up toward the head of the bed, and then crawls up the bed after him, slotting between his thighs. “And if you’re _really_ lucky, if somehow you’re fucking lucky enough to run into someone you were afraid you were never going to see again, _then you just be grateful for that,”_ Stiles hisses out, and then he kisses Derek again, hard, just this side of punishing. 

Derek is still for only a moment, but then kisses Stiles back just as fervently, as if he could chase away the shadows of the past with the brightness of Stiles’s lips and tongue and teeth, and fuck, maybe he can, because as Stiles strips Derek’s shirt over his head he feels like the hollowness inside him is receding by increments, being filled up instead with the immediacy of Stiles’s palms skating across his skin. Stiles drags his fingernails down Derek’s chest, presses his hand against the front of Derek’s jeans where he’s back to half-hard already; when Derek cants his hips up into Stiles’s hand, he can feel Stiles smile against his lips. Stiles dips his head to take Derek’s nipple between his teeth, sucking at it as he thumbs open his jeans with one hand. He moves across to the other nipple, and Derek hisses as Stiles sets his teeth into the flesh there, but it dissolves into a moan as he laves his mouth over it after, sucking it between his lips and rolling it with his tongue. Stiles dips his hand into Derek’s underwear, brushing against his cock where it’s trapped against his abdomen, and Derek moans again.

“Fuck, Derek. You’re so wet already.” Stiles swipes two fingers through the precome there and slips them into his mouth, moaning around them; it’s obscenely hot, and Derek makes a choking noise before trapping Stiles’s face between his hands and kissing his own taste out of Stiles’s mouth. 

Stiles lets out a needy sound, leans up on his elbows to push Derek’s jeans and underwear down, kissing his way down Derek’s chest and talking the whole time. “Christ, Derek, I’m going to make you feel so good. I’m going to wrap my mouth around you and suck you off and make you feel as good as you should, fuck, Derek, you deserve to feel so good, let me make you feel good, please, let me,” he says in between kissing his way down Derek’s body, stripping off his boots and socks and jeans, and sliding back up to press his face into Derek’s hip, his hands roaming up and down his chest and thighs. Stiles’s voice is husky and pleading, the words spilling out to wrap around him, caressing him as much as the hands on his skin.

Derek can feel his face burning, feel the blood pounding through his veins. He smells himself and the heavy scent of his own arousal, but under that he smells the not-quite-familiar smell of this Stiles, the one touching him all over with cool hands and hot mouth. Thing is, Derek _doesn’t_ feel like he deserves this, but he _wants_ it, and right now with the skin of Stiles’s back under his fingertips and the smell of where he is leaking inside his own pants and the sounds of his breath and blood and the relentless press of his words against him, maybe _want_ is enough right this moment.

He reaches down and cups Stiles’s face, turns it up to meet his gaze. “ _Stiles,_ ” he says, and it’s hushed and fervent like a prayer. “Anything you want, Stiles. I’m yours. Always have been.” He has to push the words out of his throat, but the look on Stiles’s face is reward enough for doing so. Derek can’t see the whites of Stiles’s eyes again, but he can see the breath punch out of Stiles, see the way he bites his lips and swallows, can hear the strangled noise he makes. 

“God, so long, I’ve wanted this so long,” Stiles whispers, and then he makes good on his promise, swipes his tongue up the length of Derek, slides back the foreskin and traces the crown, and this time it’s Derek whose breath punches out of him. He can feel the upturn of Stiles’s lips smiling against the head of his cock before he opens his mouth and swallows Derek down, tongue flicking against the underside as he slowly takes Derek in. 

Derek is surprised by the sound that slips out of him, a deep, guttural groan that’s close to a growl, but Stiles seems to appreciate it based on the way he digs his fingers into his hips. Derek tries to keep his hips still under Stiles’s hands, but he desperately wants to push up into his mouth. He grasps at the duvet, trying to control himself as Stiles works his mouth up and down on him, taking him just a little bit deeper each time. “Fuck, Stiles,” he moans, and Stiles lets his cock slip out of his mouth as he kisses his way lower, licks at the crease of his thigh, buries his face there as he slides his tongue up and around the base of Derek’s cock. 

Stiles groans, digs his fingertips into Derek’s hips hard enough that he would bruise if he were human. “You smell so good,” he murmurs, running his tongue up the seam of his balls, sucking one into his mouth and rolling it gently against his tongue. Derek’s head is thrown back and he’s breathing hard, hands desperately holding on to the bedding. Stiles nudges Derek’s thighs wider, noses into the spot behind his balls, flicks his tongue out against it. Derek groans again, and Stiles pushes his legs further apart and speaks with his mouth against Derek’s skin. “ _You smell like sex and moonlight_ ,” he murmurs, so quietly Derek can barely hear him over the sound of his own breath, and then he runs his tongue across Derek’s furled hole, hot and wet and flat, and Derek loses it then, feels his eyes flash red and his fingers slip their shape into claws, and he rips the bedding, feathers from the down cover floating up into the air as Derek cries out Stiles’s name.

Stiles licks at Derek, wet and messy, fucking into him with his tongue, and Derek is making the ungodliest of noises, high, desperate begging sounds and little aborted jerks of his hips, pressing into the wicked way that Stiles’s tongue is curling inside him. Swiping his fingers through the growing wetness on Derek’s stomach, Stiles slides his index finger inside Derek alongside his tongue, using Derek’s own precome to ease the press of it into him, fingertip crooking against the ring of muscle as he thrusts his tongue in as far as he can. Stiles pulls his face away to look up at Derek as he slides his second finger inside him as well, pressing deep, and when he hooks them just right to press against his prostate, Derek shouts Stiles’s name and rips the covers some more with his claws, sending another drift of feathers into the air. Stiles scissors his fingers, working them in and out of Derek’s body, watching as Derek falls apart underneath him. 

“Christ, Derek, you look so good like this. So fucking beautiful.” Derek opens his eyes to look at Stiles, and he knows his eyes are still red; Stiles lets out a strangled moan when their gaze meets, and he thrusts his fingers into Derek, hard and twisting, his other hand pressing against his own cock like he’s trying to keep from coming. He sucks in a breath and drops back to the bed, swallows Derek’s cock down, then sets about finding the perfect rhythm to dismantle Derek on what feels like a molecular level, his fingers thrusting up and over his prostate as he hollows his cheeks and slides his mouth down Derek’s cock until it hits the back of his throat. Derek moans, long and loud, and slides a hand—still clawed—into Stiles’s hair, carefully cupping the back of Stiles’s head, and Stiles groans around Derek. The vibrations undo him, pushing him over the edge, and with a noise he didn’t know he could make he comes, Stiles’s fingers shoved inside him and his mouth wrapped around the head of his cock, and Derek feels like he’s coming apart at the very seams of his being, pulse after pulse of come that Stiles is swallowing, making the filthiest wet noises as he does, taking everything Derek gives him. 

Derek feels hazy and indistinct, his body twitching with aftershocks, and finally Stiles pulls off of him with an audible pop, slides his fingers out of Derek’s ass slowly, and though Stiles is being gentle Derek immediately feels empty and bereft. He must make some kind of noise to that effect, because Stiles crawls up the bed beside him, reaches out a hand to cup Derek’s face. He thumbs along Derek’s cheek, and it comes away wet; Derek’s been crying, and he didn’t even realize it, but Stiles just brings his thumb to his lips and puts it in his mouth, licking Derek’s tears away. Derek lets out a choked sob that he didn’t know was in him, reaches for Stiles’s face and kisses him. He tastes the salt of his own tears and the bitterness of his own come but under that he tastes Stiles, tries to lick his own flavor off Stiles’s tongue so he can taste Stiles again. Stiles holds him, pets his face and his shoulders and his back, murmurs soft reassurances in between kisses, and Derek ends up burying his face in Stiles’s neck and just holding on, letting Stiles’s voice soothe him, letting it smooth over the sharp edges where he feels cracked apart. 

He feels Stiles still hard in his jeans, curled against Derek’s side, and he wants to return the favor, wants to touch and taste him, but when he tugs at Stiles’s jeans Stiles just presses his lips to Derek’s forehead. “Shh, it’s okay, Derek. Later. Just sleep now,” he whispers, and Derek wants to let go, the exhaustion dragging him down into sleep like dead weight. Stiles is there wrapped around him, warm body and steady heartbeat, and as he kisses Derek’s eyebrows, runs his hands down across the tattoo on his back, Derek feels like maybe it’s okay to let go, and sleep takes him.


	3. Chapter 3

Derek wakes before daybreak with a start, dark dreams receding even as he tries to remember what they were about. He can’t recall the details, just the faces of Scott and Kira, Allison and Lydia watching him silently, but even they are fading into the darkness of his memory as he fails to fix them in his mind. He rubs his face with the heels of his hands, rolls over and reaches for Stiles, realizing even as he extends his arm that he is alone in bed, the sheets beside him dusted with feathers and cool to the touch. He stares up at the dark ceiling, a sinking feeling threading throughout his gut, and he presses his hand against his mouth to keep the pathetic noise he can feel building from coming out of his mouth. Suddenly, though, as if his senses are just catching up, the smell of bacon hits him, and with it the soft sounds of someone moving around downstairs. Concentrating, he picks up the faint sound of Stiles’s heartbeat, and he sighs with relief and a joy that surprises him with the force of it. 

He slips out of bed, shaking his head at the destroyed state of his duvet, and grabs a pair of sweatpants out of a drawer, sliding into them and heading downstairs quietly, his bare feet silent on the wood floors. He finds Stiles in the kitchen, and despite how quiet Derek is, Stiles still looks up at him as he walks through the door. He’s whisking eggs in a bowl while bacon sizzles on the stove; only the stove light is on, leaving most of the kitchen in darkness, an angle that emphasizes Stiles’s cheekbones and the curve of his lips, a chiaroscuro kissed along the edges by the warmth of the light. Wordlessly, Derek pulls out a stool and takes a seat at the island, leaning on his elbows as he watches Stiles cook. His movements are efficient and sure, and he moves with grace as he swings open the fridge door, adds some cream to the eggs, and closes it back again. Stiles isn’t smiling, but he isn’t frowning, either, and Derek can’t tell from the steady thrum of his heartbeat how Stiles is feeling;  his silence makes Derek uneasy, but it’s gone on for so long now he doesn’t know how to break it. 

Pouring the eggs into a pan and pushing them around with a spoon, Stiles adds salt and pepper, takes the bacon off the burner and puts it on a plate. He moves comfortably around Derek’s kitchen, looks at home there. Once again, Derek is struck by how calm and self possessed Stiles is now, by the difference from the fidgety energy of his youth to the solidity of Stiles as a grown man. There’s a poise to this version of Stiles, evident even as he does something as quotidian as make breakfast. Derek watches intently, cradling his chin in his hand, a gentle sort of pre-dawn peace settled over him. He likes the way Stiles looks in his kitchen, likes the rumpled way his hair falls over his forehead and the hem of his t-shirt rucks up as he turns back and forth and reaches for things, revealing slivers of the smooth planes of his hips and stomach, the dark trail of hair that disappears under his waistband.

Stiles gives the eggs one last stir and then adds them to the plate of bacon, ducking to pull toast out of the oven and slicing it diagonally before placing it deliberately on each side of the eggs, forming a symmetrical picture. He shakes his head as if at himself and huffs out a small laugh, and then slides the plate in front of Derek. “Forks?” Stiles asks, and Derek juts his chin out toward the drawer. Stiles grabs two and sits on the stool beside Derek, handing him one. “Hope this is okay. I was starving,” he says, crowding into Derek’s side as he reaches for a piece of toast and takes a huge bite.

Derek pushes the plate toward Stiles so they can share more easily, picks up a piece of bacon and bites into it. It’s warm and salty and smoky and perfect, and he actually lets out a small moan at the flavor. Stiles laughs, bumps his shoulder into Derek’s, and then sets to work on the eggs, devouring half of them in just minutes. Derek spoons some eggs onto a piece of toast and nibbles at that while he watches Stiles eat, and he finally gets up to fill a glass with water from the pitcher in the fridge, taking a sip and then setting it down between them as he slides back into his seat. Stiles finishes devouring his breakfast, reaches for the glass and takes a drink as well and then turns back to Derek, his hand falling to Derek’s thigh. He pushes the plate away and swivels his body around, caging Derek between his knees, his hand sliding to Derek’s waist, his fingers wrapping cool against the skin just above his sweatpants. He leans forward, catches Derek’s gaze.

“You okay?” Stiles asks softly. The sky is bleeding gray outside the windows but the kitchen is still mostly dark. Derek pauses, really thinks about the answer, staring down at the empty plate. 

“Yeah,” he answers finally, his voice rough. He looks up at Stiles. “Yes. I’m okay.” He hopes Stiles can see the soft smile on his face in the dark.

“Good.” Stiles is so still.

“What about you?” Derek asks. “How are _you_?”

Stiles laughs softly, squeezing Derek’s legs between his knees. “I’m good. Awesome, actually. I woke up beside this totally hot guy, and then there was bacon.” Derek doesn’t hear a stutter in his heartbeat, but he sounds like he’s forcing the flippancy.

Derek frowns, slides his hand up Stiles’s thigh, feels the texture of the denim under his fingertips, and under that the firmness of Stiles’s leg. It feels important that he tells Stiles how he’s feeling, as if he could even begin to put words to the swirling wad of hot, sharp sentiment inside him right now—but he knows it’s important to try, that this moment is significant. “Stiles… I—I was worried when I woke up alone. Afraid you’d left. Took me a minute to hear you down here. I…I didn’t like the thought of you being gone.”

Stiles’s face is half in shadow, even though the greyness of dawn is beginning to press in at the windows, filling the kitchen with a weird half-light. Despite the dimness, though, Derek can see the dark look flicker across Stiles’s face before it settles into a creased brow and a look Derek can’t decipher. 

“Honestly, Derek… I thought about leaving. I really did,” he says quietly, his voice barely more than a whisper, just loud enough that it cracks as he says the words. 

“ _Fuck_ , Stiles.” Derek feels like he’s had the breath knocked out of him, starts to pull away, but Stiles slides off his stool and crowds between Derek’s knees, grabbing him by the shoulders. 

“There are probably a hundred reasons why I should have left, or why I shouldn’t have come home with you last night, why this is a terrible idea.” Derek tries to lean back, to get some space from the words that won’t stop spilling out of Stiles’s mouth, but Stiles grips him with strong hands, stronger than they should be, or maybe Derek’s just gone weak, but Stiles wraps one hand around his neck, his thumb brushing across Derek’s jaw. “Listen, please, Derek… I couldn’t leave. I _couldn’t._ I just—fuck. I feel like I reopened all these terrible wounds for you last night, but even then, I couldn’t leave, couldn’t bring myself to stop touching you, tasting you—and I shouldn’t have, it was selfish, but _fuck,_ Derek, I saw you last night, and I _wanted you_ , and our history is all fucked up and full of blood and death, but none of that felt like it mattered because you were sitting there and you were so goddamned beautiful and I couldn’t stand the thought of walking away from you.” Stiles is shaking now, his expression open and anguished, and his fingertips are digging into Derek’s shoulder hard enough to bruise him, even temporarily. “I couldn’t. Fuck.I _didn’t want to.”_ A tear spills down Stiles’s cheek, hot and shining, and Derek doesn’t even realize he’s moving until he finds himself kissing Stiles, his own hands sliding around Stiles’s waist as he stands and presses his tongue into Stiles’s mouth to stop the desperate words spilling from his mouth. Stiles lets out a sob that Derek swallows down and then pushes back into Derek, his mouth hot and wet against Derek’s lips, their tongues sliding frantically against one another and hands everywhere, pressing and pulling and sliding against one another. 

Stiles pulls back gasping and Derek licks his way down Stiles’s neck, brushes his teeth across the spot behind his ear. Stiles is panting, his heartbeat like a drum in Derek’s ears. “I’m glad you didn’t leave, Stiles,” he says against Stiles’s skin, running his tongue up the side of his neck. “I’m so fucking glad. And I’m glad we ran into each other, and I’m glad you’re here now, and fuck, Stiles, I’m glad you stayed, I want you too, Stiles, god, want you so bad, always wanted you, _still_ want you.” He’s kissing and nibbling his way across Stiles’s neck as the words spill out of him, one hand rucking up under his shirt to trace Stiles’s spine as the other snakes under the edge of Stiles’s underwear, his fingers brushing the cleft of his ass. Stiles’s hands are splayed out against Derek’s chest, fingertips brushing across his nipples before he rolls them between his thumbs and forefingers, and Derek reclaims Stiles’s mouth, fucks into it with his tongue, bites at his lips as he presses Stiles back into the counter and rakes his fingernails down Stiles’s back.

Stiles hisses and bucks his hips up into Derek, and Derek can feel Stiles’s cock hard against him, so he presses a thigh between Stiles’s legs. Stiles arches into him, his head thrown back exposing all that neck, and Derek takes it as an invitation, mouths up the long column of pale skin, bites gently at the hinge of his jaw and then nibbles his way back down, licking at the hollow of his throat and kissing at the tattoo spilling across his collarbone. Stiles is rocking his hips against Derek’s leg and panting against Derek’s ear, soft mewls and whines spilling from his lips as Derek sets the edge of his teeth against his skin. Derek extracts his hand from the back of Stiles’s pants and starts undoing his belt, pulling at the leather and then popping open the button of his fly. As his fingers dip inside he feels the tip of Stiles’s cock, hot and wet and straining against his zipper, and the angle is awkward but Derek wraps his fingers around him the best he can and Stiles cants his hips upward into Derek’s grip and lets out an ungodly noise, something between a moan and a shout that dies out in a guttural growl. Derek shifts, tries to get a better angle to see if he can pull a noise like that from him again, but then Stiles is pushing Derek away, the hands that were grasping at him just moments before instead shoving at Derek’s shoulders.

“Derek, fuck, I can’t,” Stiles says, his voice anguished and heavy as he pushes Derek back. He raises his hands and runs them across his face, drawing a shuddering breath. “I can’t, Derek, I can’t do this, not to you, fuck, I’m so sorry,” he says in a panicked voice as he is shouldering his way past Derek and toward the door. He stoops to grab his jacket from the floor, stops at the door with one hand on the door frame and lets out a choked sob. “Derek, I’m so sorry. I just _can’t,_ I wish I could, _fuck,_ I wish I could explain, I just—I’m so sorry,” and then he’s out the door and it’s clicking shut before Derek even realizes what has happened. He can still feel the slick of Stiles’s precome on his fingers, can still smell him, can taste the leaden weight of Stiles’s desire on his tongue, but Stiles is gone and Derek has no idea what just happened. He staggers back and sinks down onto the stool, staring at the door as he hears Stiles running down the block, away from him, his footsteps fading into the breaking day.

Stiles is _gone,_ and Derek realizes with the same sinking feeling he woke up with that he has no way to find him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter chapter, but I'll update sooner than my supposed once-a-week schedule that's really not a schedule but more like when I can squeeze in time to dream up more manpain and then write about it (or so it would seem, anyway).
> 
> Hang on--explanations in the next chapter. And more sex. Always more sex.


	4. Chapter 4

Two days later, Derek hears a knock at the door. He ignores it and burrows down further into the couch, figuring it’s just UPS or something, but then there’s another knock, insistent and irritating and really just way too loud. Groaning, Derek rolls off the couch and stumbles toward the door, pulling it open to reveal Stiles standing there, hand raised as if he’s about to knock again. Derek starts to shut the door but Stiles puts his palm on it, pushes it back open again, and Derek wavers slightly and stands there glowering.

“What?” Derek says tersely.

“Dude… are you _drunk?”_ Stiles asks incredulously.

Derek grimaces, tries to shut the door again, but Stiles is shouldering his way inside. Giving up, he heads back to the couch, drops back down into his nest of blankets and picks his glass back up, ignoring Stiles as he comes in and shuts the door behind him.

“Seriously. How does a werewolf even get drunk?” Stiles asks, following him over to the couch and looming over him. Stiles _looms._ He’s tall and he’s a _loomer._ Derek shakes his head and takes another swig from his glass.

“Go away, Stiles,” Derek says flatly. Instead, Stiles swipes the glass out of his hand and sniffs at it.

“Whiskey spiked with wolfsbane? Really?” Stiles asks. “Tell me you didn’t commit this atrocity upon something top shelf.”

Derek hides his face in the blanket. His senses are dull enough that he isn’t assaulted by the smell of Stiles, but if he doesn’t leave soon Derek’s not going to be able to keep pretending he isn’t there. “Go ‘way.”

Stiles laughs then. “Nope. Not gonna happen.” He slides out of the wool peacoat he’s wearing and tosses it on a chair, pushes up the sleeves of his thermal shirt over his forearms. He then starts picking dishes and glasses and mugs up, takes them to the kitchen while making an ungodly amount of clanking noises that set Derek’s teeth on edge. He comes back, reaches down and grabs Derek and pulls him to his feet by his ratty sweatshirt. Derek sways on his feet, gives Stiles a sour look and swats his hands away. 

“What’re you even _doin’_ here?” Derek slurs, shuffling toward the kitchen to get a glass of water. He rinses out a mug in the sink and refills it with tap water and drinks it slowly, staring out the window at the eucalyptus trees. 

Stiles comes over to lean on the counter beside him. “I came to apologize. But that’ll have to wait. What _happened_ to you?” he asks, and even in a haze Derek can actually make out the concern in his voice.

“You left,” Derek answers, still staring out the window. He drains the cup, refills it and takes another sip.

“So you went on a bender?”

“Pretty much.”

“Fuck, Derek.” Stiles rubs his hand over his face and around to the back of his neck, that familiar gesture that makes Derek’s insides clench. Sitting down sounds good, so he does, right there on the kitchen floor, his back pressed against the counter as he sips his water and tries desperately to ignore the part of him that is fluttering around like a moth beating against the hope that’s blooming inside him in Stiles’s presence.

Stiles sinks down to the floor as well, one leg folded under himself, his body turned toward Derek. “I’m sorry. I panicked, and I was overwhelmed. But I would really rather apologize when you’re sober.”

“Will be soon,” Derek says grumpily. “Fucking werewolf metabolism.”

Stiles actually laughs at him, reaches out and touches Derek’s sleeve. “Have you been shut in here for the last two days?”

“I work from home,” Derek says defensively. It sounds petulant, even to him.

“Yeah, you _smell_ super productive. When’s the last time you showered?”

Derek just glares at Stiles. 

“Okay then. Here’s what we are going to do. We are going to get you in the shower, with lots and lots of soap, and then I’m taking you out to dinner, and we’re going to talk.” Stiles takes the mug from Derek’s hands.

“Stop taking all my beverages,” Derek says, snatching the mug back and slopping water all over himself in the process.

Stiles rolls his eyes and stands up, reaching out to help Derek up. “Come on, Sourwolf,” he says, and helps him stand. Derek is feeling steadier already, and with that steadiness comes the simultaneous pleasure and pain at the feeling of Stiles’s hands on his. He pulls his hands out of Stiles’s grasp, but he’s careful to do so gently rather than petulantly. He tries not to think about anything as he heads up the stairs and into his bedroom; he hasn’t been up here since Stiles had left and he’d forgotten about the shredded down comforter. Feathers still dust the floor like out-of-season snowfall, his clothes still in a pile at the foot of the bed where Stiles had stripped him out of them. The wolfsbane is wearing off enough now that he can even smell the combined scent of the two of them in the room, and he stalks through and slams the door of the bathroom just to try and shut it out.

He strips off his grubby sweats and turns on the shower to heat up while he brushes his teeth. He catches sight of himself in the mirror and realizes how horrible he looks, circles under his eyes and four day stubble, and he groans because he knows Stiles saw him looking this wrecked, his appearance no doubt speaking volumes about his mental state even if he was too incapacitated to say anything.

Trying to shake it all off, he climbs in the shower, presses his forehead against the cool marble tile and lets the water sluice over his back. He washes thoroughly and then does it again, scrubbing at his skin until it’s pink. Cutting off the water, he towels off and then takes the time to shave, and when he looks in the mirror after rinsing the shaving cream off his face, he’s glad to see a reflection that looks vaguely human again.

He wraps a towel around his waist and opens the door to find Stiles sitting on his bed, freshly made with new sheets and a quilt that he knows were in the hall closet. The feathers have all been cleaned up as well, and Stiles looks up at him as he comes out of the bathroom, an indecipherable expression on his face. “Talk about a wet dream,” he mumbles, shaking his head.

Derek ignores that, walks over to the bed, reaches out a hand to brush his fingers over the quilt. “You didn’t have to do that,” he says softly. 

Stiles just looks up at him, his eyes dark, and he shrugs. “I’ll leave you to get dressed,” he says quietly, heading for the door. “I’ll be downstairs.”

Derek walks to the dresser, pulls out underwear and jeans and a t-shirt and tosses them to the bed, and as he is pulling on his pants he notices a notepad on his bedside table, one he normally keeps in the drawer. It has Stiles’s name on it in the same scrawl he remembers so well, and below it a phone number and email address. He touches the name with his index finger, drags it across and feels the depressions in the paper that spell out Stiles’s name, and he smiles.

Dressed and ready, Derek heads downstairs and finds Stiles checking out his bookshelves, head cocked to the side to read the titles. “You have a _lot_ of books,” Stiles says, sounding impressed.

“A bunch are ones I worked on. I’m an editor,” he answers, putting on his jacket.

Stiles looks at him with wide eyes and a huge smile. “Really? For a publisher?” Derek nods. “That’s awesome! Fuck, I hate that I didn’t ask you this stuff the other night.” Stiles shakes his head, grabs his own coat and slides into it as he heads for the door. Derek follows him out and locks up behind him, and Stiles asks, “So, what are you hungry for?”

“There’s a good Italian place near here,” he offers. Stiles looks at him gratefully, like he realizes that Derek is trying.

“Perfect. Lead the way.” 

Derek gestures up the block and they walk side by side, both with their hands tucked in their pockets. They walk slowly, the fall evening unfurling and stretching out around them, and a comfortable silence settles over them. When they reach the end of the block Derek gestures left and they turn, Stiles’s arm bumping Derek’s. Derek is sober again, and self-aware enough to be ashamed  of his behavior—even more so for Stiles to have witnessed it. As if he can feel Derek’s embarrassment, though, Stiles links his arm through Derek’s and smiles at him as they turn up Mission Street, and Derek gives Stiles a small smile before ducking his head. Once they reach the restaurant Stiles holds the door for Derek; it’s early enough that they don’t have to wait for a table and they get seated under a staircase in a corner that feels cozy and somewhat private. 

Derek orders only water with his meal, which Stiles smiles wryly at, and once they’ve both selected their meal—Stiles choosing two appetizers in addition to his entree—they settle in, both picking at the bread on the table. It’s fragrant and loaded with rosemary and it’s making Derek feel better already.

“You didn’t eat for a couple of days, did you?” Stiles asks as he watches him.

Derek looks down, embarrassed. “Not really.”

“Why?”

Derek leans back in his chair and sighs. This is the part he’s bad at, the part that most functional people find easy but that he finds almost impossible. “Just didn’t feel like it,” he says quietly.

Stiles looks at him in a calculating way. “I thought you were an editor. Still not using your words?”

Derek huffs. “Those aren’t my words.”

“Point taken.” Stiles scoots up closer to the table, rests his elbows on it as he leans forward. “Derek. Come on, man. Tell me what’s going on with you. What happened. Please?”

It’s the _please_ that catches him, makes his heart pound, because he knows he’s going to do what Stiles asks, knows there isn’t much he _wouldn’t_ do if Stiles asked him to. It makes him feel desperate and pathetic, but those aren’t exactly alien to him and there’s something vaguely comforting about the familiarity of it.

“Look, Stiles.” He leans back in his chair and sighs, looks out over Stiles’s head, at the art on the walls, anywhere else as he speaks. “I live a deliberately sheltered life. I work from home. I don’t have any friends here in town. I talk to my sister once a month because we really only barely ever knew each other anyway and getting past that never got any easier. And then you were there at the bar that night, and… I don’t know. I felt like it was my once chance to fix something.” He leans forward now, the words coming easier. “Really, think about it. What are the astronomical odds that we would ever run into one another again? We both left Beacon Hills behind us, we haven’t spoken for seven years, but now we are in the same city, living just neighborhoods apart and run into each other in a club? I just… I couldn’t ignore that, couldn’t turn away from you.” He finally looks up, meets Stiles’s eyes. “Because for seven years, I’ve dreamt about you, Stiles. Dreamt about your quick laugh and your long fingers and your sarcasm and your assholishness, and about everything you always meant to me but that I couldn’t do anything about because you _were sixteen_ , and then _seventeen,_ and what the fuck was wrong with _me_ that I wanted to kiss you, touch you everywhere, that I wanted to cover you in my scent until everyone knew you were mine?”

Stiles looks stunned, lips parted and eyes wide, so Derek figures he may as well continue ripping off this particular band aid. “I’ve dreamt about you, Stiles. I still dream about everyone else that we lost, but you were lost to me too, really. And then suddenly you _weren’t_ —you were right here, flesh and blood, in San Francisco, and in my house, and in my bed and my kitchen, and I couldn’t believe how severely the axis of my world had tilted in just a few hours. And I felt crazed and hopeful and, fuck, _you were there_ , and you’re just different enough, grown up and changed enough that I was so eager to get to know you again, to learn to pick out your smell or your heartbeat in a city filled with people. But then…then you were gone, _again_ , so suddenly, and I had no idea what had happened, you just _left,_ and I didn’t know why but I have a hundred guesses. Most of all I figure I remind you too much of everyone that died, everyone I couldn’t save, wasn’t _strong_ enough to save.”

He’s interrupted by the waiter dropping off Stiles’s appetizers, and he’s grateful for it as he takes a long drink of water. Stiles looks down, pushes the arancini around the plate.

“That’s not why I left, Derek,” he says in a small voice. “I left Beacon Hills because I couldn’t stand walking through ghosts anymore, but that was never _your fault_.” Derek shakes his head and Stiles leans across the table to grab his arm. “No. Really. _You need to hear this._ Erica and Boyd were not your fault. You always blamed yourself, which is exactly what the Alpha pack wanted you to do, because it’s easier to tear down your enemy when he thinks he deserves to be torn down. But that doesn’t make it true. And Allison’s death, well, if it’s on anybody it’s on me, but after a lot of soul searching in the stupid Druid world, I came to accept it wasn’t really me—I was a tool, and it was the nogitsune, and ultimately Allison made the choices she felt she could live with… or die with.” He stops, rubs his hands over his face. “Fuck. I haven’t talked about any of this in years.”

“Me either,” Derek says quietly.

“Then by all means, let’s get it all out there.” Stiles sticks a rice ball in his mouth, swallows it down with some water. “Kira and Scott and Lydia all died fighting for something they believed in, Derek.”

“They died because I couldn’t protect them.”

Stiles grabs his arm again, slides his hand over Derek’s closed fist. He isn’t raising his voice, but he’s speaking in fervent, hushed tones. “Derek, goddammit. Hear me, and hear me well. _It wasn’t your fault._ You can’t save everybody. I couldn’t either. But what we did, what happened, the sacrifices that Scott and and everyone else made…we kept an _immense_ evil out of the world, Derek, and it cost us almost everything to do it, so don’t _belittle_ the choices they made to give their lives in order to stop Anaximander!” Stiles pulls away, grabs his fork and stabs at a meatball, sticking it in his mouth and chewing angrily.

Derek rubs his temples, tries to make some sense of the emotional maelstrom inside him. “How?” he asks quietly, earnestly. “How do you live with it and not let it tear you apart?”

Stiles stabs another meatball, but he chews this one more thoughtfully. “You just do,” he says. “But you have to live _with_ it. Not live in it, or around it. It’s a part of me, too, and time helped. It’s not like I don’t think about them.”

Derek nods. “Your tattoo.”

Stiles smiles, touches his shoulder absently. “Yeah. It was a way to acknowledge them, to remember them, and to try and honor them. It started with the wolf, because I missed Scott so much I couldn’t breathe sometimes, and I was walking past this tattoo parlor in LA and I just wandered in and met this artist who happened to be amazing. And it helped—the pain of sitting through it, remembering Scott and his relentless optimism and his goofy smile.” Stiles stares out over the restaurant blankly, takes a drink. “After that, I kept going back. Got the fox for Kira, the bow for Allison.”

“The butterflies are Lydia, aren’t they?” Derek asks, reaching out across the table to touch Stiles this time.

Stiles gives him a sad smile. “Yeah. I mean, how do you put into an image all the things she was?” As he’s speaking, Derek remembers how much Stiles had loved Lydia, once, and how the two of them were a practically unstoppable force together afterwards.

“Butterflies are perfect,” he says gently, and Stiles covers Derek’s hand where it’s resting on his arm with his own, his fingers warm for once.

Stiles swallows, takes a deep breath and swipes at his eyes with his free hand. “Anyway, then the birds got worked in, light and dark for Boyd and Erica, and by the time it was done I felt like I had grieved enough. It’s funny, before I got queasy at the _sight_ of needles, but sitting through the methodical process of all that ink… it was therapy, really. It’s not that I don’t still miss them, or think about them every day. But it doesn’t hurt the same way, like it’s going to wrench all the breath out of me.” He twines his fingers in Derek’s and squeezes lightly.

Derek thinks he understands what Stiles is trying to say, feels like maybe for the first time it is something he could let loose of, like maybe he _should_ stop strangling himself with the past. “Maybe you’re right. I guess…they can’t forgive me, and so I feel like I can’t put the weight of it down, it’s mine to live with.”

“Then let _me_ help carry the weight until you feel like you can put it down. But, the thing is, though… You don’t need forgiveness from them, Derek. You need it from yourself. You always have.”

Derek is stunned by Stiles’s words, and they bounce around inside his head until they settle into his stomach where they bloom hot and feverish. “Fuck. _Fuck._ You’re right.” Derek sighs, looks at their fingers entwined in between the dishes on the table. “You’ve always been right. It’s annoying,” he says, grumpily, but the thing is, Stiles _is_ right, and for the first time Derek can see the truth of it.

Stiles laughs, pulls Derek’s hand toward him and plants a soft kiss on the knuckle of his index finger. “You should listen to me more.”

“I want to,” Derek says softly, squeezing Stiles’s hand back.

The waiter arrives then and they break apart to make room for their entrees, pumpkin ravioli for Derek and gnocchi for Stiles, and they dig in. A few bites in Derek realizes he’s famished, and he makes quick work of his meal. Stiles must be hungry too, because he finishes his gnocchi and then polishes off the arancini. As the waiter clears their plates Stiles orders gelato as well. “Two spoons,” he says smiling, winking at the waiter, and Derek can’t help but laugh.

“Well, you’re definitely not manorexic,” Derek says, and Stiles laughs, too. Derek feels lighter already, wonders how things can change so much in the course of one meal, or if it’s just a particular effect of being near Stiles and caught up in the whirlwind of his personality. He wants to know more, know everything about him. “What do you do, Stiles?” he asks, reaching back across the table to touch his fingers to Stiles’s hand.

Stiles grabs at Derek’s hand, wraps their fingers up together. “I’m a graphic designer.” 

“Huh,” says Derek thoughtfully. “Makes sense, I guess.”

“It does?”

Derek nods. “You always had a good eye about design, patterns, stuff like that. It’s not a huge jump from that to graphic art.”

Stiles is blushing just a little, high on his cheekbones and the tips of his ears. He ducks his head, and says, “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” The waiter brings the gelato; Stiles has ordered the salted caramel flavor, and he spoons a bite of it and holds it out to Derek. Derek raises his eyebrows at him and Stiles laughs, gesturing at him, and Derek relents and ducks forward to eat it off the spoon. The flavor hits him all at once, salty and sweet and dark, and Derek finds himself blushing too at the intense way Stiles is watching him. He licks his bottom lip and watches Stiles track the movement with his eyes. Stiles looks down long enough to spoon another bite and meets Derek’s gaze as he licks it off the spoon, his pink tongue swiping across the spoon as he chases the gelato. Derek’s face goes even hotter. “You’re doing that on purpose,” he says darkly.

Stiles gives him a predatory smile, runs his tongue across his lips. His eyes have gone hooded and dark. “Yep,” he says, popping the _p_ exaggeratedly.

Derek gestures at the waiter for the check. “You ready to get out of here?” he asks, and Stiles nods slowly, deliberately. Derek looks at the check, slaps down a pile of cash and hurries Stiles out of the restaurant, his hand on the small of Stiles’s back as he steers him toward the door. Once outside Stiles pulls Derek to him, his face right up against Derek’s, a mere inch between their lips, and Stiles reaches that tongue out, slowly licks at Derek’s bottom lip before closing the distance between their mouths. He rolls Derek’s lip between his teeth, sucking at it. 

“Mmm, you taste delicious,” Stiles whispers, and Derek splays his hands across Stiles’s back and pulls their hips together.

“Come home with me,” Derek asks, and even he hears the pleading tone in his own voice.

“Yes,” Stiles says with no hesitation, kissing Derek deeply, their tongues curling around each other and hands grabbing at one another, until Stiles pulls back slightly and whispers against Derek’s ear: “But first, Derek…we’re going dancing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I say explanations in this chapter? I meant to, I promise, but it was getting way long, so what I really meant was in the NEXT chapter, for realzies, pinky swear.
> 
> God, I love these two fuckers. 
> 
> Thank you all for your amazing kudos and comments--your responses have totally inspired me to crank this out a lot faster than I thought I would.


	5. Chapter 5

“The Make Out Room?” Derek asks incredulously, standing on the sidewalk and staring dubiously up at the sign.

“Yep,” Stiles answers, popping the _p_ sound again. He had practically drug Derek here, a club only a few blocks from the restaurant that Derek had never heard of before. “Seems appropriate,” Stiles says, smiling. “Plus, you should listen to me more. We’ve established that already.” Stiles brushes his lips across Derek’s and leads him inside, checks their coats and immediately pulls Derek out to the dance floor. The music is a remixed soul song, thrumming with bass, and the place is barely contained chaos—the ceiling is hung with mirror balls and tinsel and streamers, ornate mirrors and weird taxidermy and glittery strands of beads gracing the walls. The lights are bouncing around the room and the place is packed, individuals forming one large writhing entity as they move to the music.

Derek has never been particularly fond of dancing; he’s always awkward and too aware of himself, but this place is such sensory overload that he just goes with it, lets Stiles manhandle him toward the center of the floor, slipping against other bodies in the dense near-darkness as they wade to the middle of the room. Stiles hooks his fingers into Derek’s belt loops and pulls him close, a push-pull of his hands directing Derek’s hips to swivel to the beat, and Stiles meets his movements with his own hips. They settle into the rhythm of the song, and Derek isn’t surprised that Stiles is a good dancer; what does surprise him is that, dancing with Stiles, he suddenly feels like he is okay at this as well. One song fades seamlessly into another and the crowd cheers, the DJ in the booth above them pumping his arm in the air and the crowd swinging their hands back at him. Stiles seems looser, somehow calmer even amidst all the chaos, and Derek grabs at his hips and slots one thigh between Stiles’s legs. One song fades into another, and then another, and Derek and Stiles never stop touching. They are moving in tandem, their hands sliding over one another’s hips and waists and chests, legs entwined and bodies pressing together, falling away, only to come back together again.

The frantic beat fades out again as a slower song comes on, dark and pounding and unabashedly sexy. Stiles smiles at him, his grin wolfish, and he crowds in close to Derek, slides his arms around his waist and pulls him closer, their bodies swaying together to the rhythm. The crowd is pressed in around them, and the typical club smell of sex and desire is amplified here, like it’s on some kind of feedback loop with the thrum of the music and the slip-slide of bodies in the dark. Derek noses along Stiles’s face, inhales the particular smell of _him_ , chasing away the smell of everyone else. It’s stronger right behind his ear where Derek drags the side of his cheek. Stiles grips him tighter.

“Derek…you can hear me, right?” Stiles asks lowly. Thanks to the werewolf hearing, he does, and he nods gently against Stiles’s neck, brushing his lips across the moles scattered there.

“I’m sorry, Derek. I really am.”

Derek pulls back, looks Stiles in the eye even as their bodies sway to the music. He was so distraught over the last two days, so wrecked by the way Stiles had run away from him, but Stiles is here now, his hands grasping at Derek’s skin under the hem of his shirt, and it’s hard to focus on that hurt with Stiles pressing against him, apologizing. Derek can taste his sincerity, can feel the weight of it on his tongue, can see the pulse jumping in Stiles’s neck as he looks earnestly at Derek, waiting.

Derek lets out the breath he didn’t realize he was holding and nods, once, runs his thumb across Stiles’s jaw, down the side of his neck, brushing his fingertips across the curls of ink on his collarbone. He leans into Stiles, puts his lips to his ear and says quietly, “Apology accepted.”

Stiles lets out a choked-off sob and draws a great shuddering breath, his fingertips digging into Derek’s waist. He slots his fingers into Derek’s hair and kisses him, gently at first and then fervently, their mouths sliding wetly against one another. Stiles reaches down to cup Derek’s ass, pulling their hips together as he bites at Derek’s earlobe, and Derek growls in return.

The dance floor is getting more and more crowded, becoming one large mass of people twisting and thrusting and touching. The DJ plays another song that’s slow and rhythmic and pounding, like the soundtrack to sex made into music. Between the moving lights and the thudding music and the hot press of bodies and the accompanying smells around him, Derek’s senses are overwhelmed and he is losing track of time, his perceptions all narrowing down instead to the feel of Stiles against him, the way Stiles has slipped his hand around the back of Derek’s neck, and then they are kissing again, lips quickly giving way to tongues and the hot slick of their mouths against one another. They are buffeted by the people near them, a swirl of writhing bodies, arms and chests and hands all around them, all driven by the same beat. Derek feels people pressing into he and Stiles, feels hips and legs, everyone moving together in a sweaty, orgiastic mass. Even as he has the thought he realizes how he actually _feels_ , his senses occluded by the thick clutch of sex, almost tangible in the air, and as he looks around with hooded eyes he notes how everyone else seems to be caught up in it as well. There are couples, threesomes, foursomes, an infinite sea of hands sliding around the edges of clothes, lips on skin everywhere around them. Derek catches glimpses of two guys kissing with a girl plastered in between them, of three boys all pressed together with their shirts off, of one girl fingering another beneath the hem of her skirt as they dance together. In the midst of all this, there are he and Stiles, whose mouth is open and whose eyes are closed as he tilts his chin up and seems to drink in the debauchery around them. 

Derek is awestruck, watching as Stiles’s long neck arches back, and he’s floored by the _elegance_ of it, the delicate sweep of pale skin with its constellation of moles, and without thinking he runs his tongue up the long line of it, tasting _salt_ and _desire_ and under that _Stiles._ Stiles moans, a dirty, filthy sound worthy of porn, and Derek feels drunker than he’d been earlier when he’d been downing wolfsbane-laced whiskey. His limbs feel both heavy and light, his skin tingling everywhere it connects with Stiles’s, and he breathes in the smell and taste of Stiles and then turns him by the hips, slotting in behind him, their bodies aligning and the curve of Stiles’s ass pressing into his cock. They sway together to the music, Stiles’s back pressed to Derek’s chest, and Derek mouths at Stiles’s neck, kissing and licking and biting, pulling Stiles’s t shirt to the side and sinking his teeth into his shoulder, licking at the bite mark. Stiles is groaning, and Derek slides his other hand around his chest, thumbs at his nipples through the shirt, enjoys the feel of them pebbling beneath the thin cotton. Stiles presses back into Derek, rubbing his ass against Derek’s cock with a delicious rhythm, and Derek feels like the music and the heat and the sea of people and the feel of Stiles’s body responding under his touch have all coalesced inside him in a swirling mass of sparks and embers and pops, like he can’t possibly contain it all. Stiles is making the most amazing sounds as Derek kisses his neck, runs his hands reverently across his torso—high tight gasps that alternate with deep, low guttural moans, quiet little exclamations of pleasure as Derek maps out his body with fingertips. If it weren’t for Derek’s heightened hearing, he wouldn’t be able to hear them, and in this moment he is just so fucking grateful that he can, that he can hear the effect he is having on Stiles. 

He slips his hand down Stiles’s waist, runs his palm across the tight line of his cock across the front of his jeans, and Stiles’s breath punches out of him as he thrusts up against Derek’s hand. Nibbling at Stiles’s ear, Derek slips his fingers under the waistband of Stiles’s jeans, where he discovers that Stiles has opted to go commando. He’s grateful, because it’s one less thing to get in his way as he flicks the button open with one hand and wraps the fingers of his other hand around Stiles’s cock. It’s feverishly hot, thick and elegantly arched, and already slick with precome, and as Derek cants his hips into Stiles in order to press Stiles’s cock through the tight ring of his fingers, Stiles lets out a choked, “Fuck!” and drops his head back on Derek’s shoulder, his tongue pressed to his top lip and his eyes closed tight. Derek is dimly aware that jacking someone off on a crowded dance floor isn’t an activity he would normally engage in, but a quick glance around reveals several people nearby who are literally fucking on the dance floor, and Derek just buries his face in the side of Stiles’s beautiful neck and pushes away his lazy sense of guilt, focusing instead on the obscene noises Stiles is making and the thick twitch of his cock in Derek’s hand. The music is hypnotic, building, and Derek feels it in the marrow of his bones. 

Stiles is thrusting back and forth with the beat of the song, rubbing back against the line of Derek’s cock and then rolling his hips forward to drive himself through Derek’s grip, slick and tight and hot. Derek thumbs across Stiles’s slit and Stiles moans again, reaches his hand behind him to grab at the back of Derek’s neck. Derek bites at his earlobe again, whispers to Stiles, “You are so fucking beautiful, and you feel so good, Stiles, _fuck,”_ and Stiles plunges his hand into Derek’s hair, his fingertips scrabbling against the back of Derek’s neck. The music is driving forward, nearing its crescendo, and Derek can hear moans and gasps and groans from everyone around him now, the entire club caught up in whatever is happening, people in various states of undress undulating together in a primal, concupiscent mass. 

Beneath his hands Stiles is writhing, his hips snapping up into Derek’s grasp, and from his lips are spilling Derek’s name and a jumble of curses, one long exhale of _fuck_ and _yes_ and _please_ and _Derek._ Derek noses along the side of his neck, licks as he twists his grip, and then bites down on the swirl of ink at the junction of his shoulder and Stiles shouts, his hips stilling as he comes, spilling blindingly hot across Derek’s fingers, shuddering pulse after pulse as Stiles empties himself into Derek’s hand, and it’s so mind-blisteringly hot that Derek presses himself forward into Stiles one last time and, with a growl, comes in his pants, his teeth still buried in Stiles’s shoulder. The song has hit the crescendo, and all around him he hears the sighs and shouts and moans of orgasms, a symphony of voices all tied up in the sounds of pleasure. 

The song fades out and nothing replaces it, everyone’s panting and the moans of aftershocks the only soundtrack. Derek looks up to the DJ booth with a dim, disconnected curiosity and sees him collapsed over a woman bent across the turntable. Stiles is still shuddering against him, his cock still twitching in his grasp, and Derek strokes him through it before bringing his hand to his mouth and licking Stiles’s come off his fingers.

Stiles makes a choked sound and turns in his arms, licks his way into Derek’s mouth and kisses him, languidly at first and then harder, pressing himself against Derek frantically before finally pulling back, resting his forehead against Derek’s and panting like he’d just finished a race. Derek runs his hands up Stiles’s arms, up his neck and across his jaw, and he cradles Stiles’s face in his hands. He pulls back to look at Stiles, whose lips are still parted and his eyes still scrunched closed. “Stiles,” he says, running his thumbs across the corners of his mouth, sliding his hands up the sides of his face to cup his neck.

“Derek. God, Derek…” Stiles says, his eyes still closed. He licks his lips, an unconscious gesture that seems nervous, and mutters _fuck fuck fuck_ under his breath, barely an exhale.

“Stiles?” Derek asks, taking a half-step back. He feels like a spell is lifting, and judging by the confused noises around them, he isn’t the only one with that reaction. Stiles reaches out and grasps him by the arms, his fingertips digging into his biceps, and then Stiles opens his eyes to meet Derek’s gaze.

Despite the darkness in the club, Derek can clearly see that Stiles’s eyes are entirely swallowed by blackness, no iris at all, just an inky black beneath his lashes.

Derek feels himself gasp, his mouth falling open, and a stricken look flashes across Stiles’s face. 

Stiles pulls away from Derek’s arms, turns, and runs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... life happened? And then there were conferences and I had to write other, less fun stuff, and then I got drafted to start a podcast, and just all these THINGS happened and KEPT HAPPENING and I got very distracted from this saga and I feel like I owe you a million apologies?
> 
> Or, if you've read this far, perhaps I just owe you thanks...
> 
> But I think I found my groove again.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We find out what exactly happened in the club, but the answer only raises more questions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ack! Another chapter! I swear I want to finish this!  
> I've been in a bad place; got laid off from a job I worked 10 years, found another job, utterly despised it at first but now am settling in, and really change isn't my best thing and so much of that was happening and this just got left.  
> But now! Here it is now! All the marvelous, kind comments y'all have left me have been so inspiring, I just couldn't leave it be, languishing unfinished.  
> So, for now, Chapter 6...

Stunned by everything that just happened, Derek is frozen, watching Stiles flee toward the back of the club, weaving in between bodies in various states of undress. Finally his brain catches up and he bolts after Stiles, refusing to let him get away again. He elbows past people and jumps over one couple sorting through clothes on the floor, headed for the hallway Stiles disappeared down, and finally clear of the crowd he slips out the back door that’s still gliding back closed from Stiles’s exit.

In the dark alley behind the club, Derek catches up to Stiles, and leaving nothing to chance, he wraps an arm around his waist, hauling him backward. 

Derek’s not sure what’s going on, and he’s not sure what Stiles is, but he’ll be _damned_ if he’s letting him run away this time.

Quicker, stronger than Derek remembers, Stiles spins them so fast Derek’s breath whooshes out of him as Stiles pushes him back against the brick wall, holding Derek at arm’s length. Derek feels his eyes flash red as he grabs Stiles by the shoulders and spins him back around, pressing Stiles’s back into the brick and crowding close. Stiles struggles against him and Derek has to concentrate to keep him caged in with his body, until he finally yells, “Stiles, _please!”_ , and slowly Stiles calms beneath his hands, a long breath rattling out of him as he drops his head back against the wall and sighs, accepting that Derek’s not going to let him go.

They’re both breathing hard, and Derek can’t help but notice a strange, alien smell clinging to Stiles, one that’s dark and heady and promises sex, like Stiles’s pores are perfuming the air around them. Derek realizes he had smelled this in the club, but he thought it was the crowd, the weird blend of the scent of all the bodies around them caught up in one another. But now, the way the scent hugs Stiles’s body, he realizes it had been Stiles all along, and he breathes deeper, trying to figure out what it is.

Stiles is still, watching him from under a heavy-lidded gaze, his eyes still inky and black, all the whites gone. He’s letting Derek sniff him, a bitter expression on his face, gone pliant under Derek’s grasp. Derek meets his eyes and hates what he sees there—not the pools of black beneath his lashes, but because Stiles looks like he’s braced for rejection, or anger, and it makes Derek’s heart catch. He doesn’t know what’s going on, or what just happened, but he knows he _hates_ seeing that look on Stiles, and before he realizes what he’s doing, he leans in and kisses Stiles, a soft ghosting of lips across his parted mouth, and Stiles freezes before letting a soft sigh escape him as he meets Derek’s kiss. It’s the exact opposite of the kisses in the club; languid instead of fervent, gentle instead of fevered. Derek can feel Stiles rebuilding his composure as they kiss, and when at last he slowly pulls back, a gentle tug to Stiles bottom lip as he does so, Stiles’s eyes have gone back to their usual honey brown. 

“So,” Derek says, and Stiles drops his head, takes a deep breath.

“So,” Stiles echoes, his fingers digging into Derek’s waist.

“Want to tell me what happened back there?” Derek asks gently.

Stiles looks up and meets Derek’s gaze. He takes a shuddering breath, lets it out.

“I’m an incubus,” Stiles says softly, the words quiet but clear in the crisp fall air.

Derek freezes, with the exception of his eyebrows, which he can feel shooting upward. Stiles watches him intently, and Derek finally blinks. “Huh?” he asks stupidly, feeling like his brain is swimming through molasses.

Stiles laughs just a little, then, a soft puff of breath. “Incubus. Me. That’s what I am.” He pauses and then lifts a hand, waves his fingers at Derek. “Hiiiii…” he says quietly, trailing off into silence as Derek gapes at him.

Derek stares at him, long enough for it to be weird and awkward, and then for a few moments more. Finally he blinks again, sniffs the air, and with a shy smile breaking across his face, asks, “Really?”

“Ye _p,_ ” Stiles says, popping the p. 

Derek huffs a laugh, crowds his hips into Stiles and drops his face to the crook of Stiles’s neck and breathes in deep, and Stiles squirms against him, turning to look at Derek like he’s crazy. Derek just shoves his face back into Stiles and inhales again, and says with his lips against his neck, “ _That’s_ why you smell different!”

Stiles drops his head back, lets Derek run his nose over his neck. “I can’t help but notice you don’t seem too bothered by this,” he says a little breathlessly as Derek is brushing his lips over his moles. Inside the club the music has started back up, and the low notes of the bass reverberate through the wall at his back.

“Nope,” Derek says, flicking his tongue out to run it up the side of his neck, up toward his ear. Derek sets the edge of his teeth against Stiles’s earlobe and enjoys the way it makes Stiles press his hips up into him.

“Are you sure you realize what I’m saying?” Stiles asks, and Derek rolls his earlobe between his lips before answering.

“Yep. You’re an incubus.” He switches to the other side of Stiles’s neck, scenting and licking and nibbling, edging his way down toward where Stiles’s tattoos peek out of the collar of his shirt.

“ _Fuck,_ Derek. Yeah. I’m an incubus. That whole orgy thing back there was me.” His fingers grasp at Derek’s waist as he hits a sensitive spot, and he shivers. Derek’s fingers slip down to grab at Stiles’s ass and he pulls their hips together, rubbing himself against Stiles. “Dude. Seriously.” Derek just squeezes Stiles’s ass more and nibbles at his shoulder. “Derek!”

Derek pulls back, his eyes a little unfocused. “What?”

“Dude, I just told you I’m a fucking creature of the night, and you’re all over me like white on rice!”

Derek flashes a grin at him, his teeth glinting in the darkness. “ _Dude,”_ he echoes, _“_ I’m a _werewolf_. The world is full of weird shit. So what?”

Stiles pushes Derek back by the hips. “So, you don’t get it. I _feed_ on sex.”

Derek smiles again. “I get it, Stiles.”

Stiles makes an exasperated noise. “No, I really don’t think you do.”

Derek gives him a wry look, cants his hips back into Stiles. “I know what an incubus is, Stiles,” he says dryly. 

“Then what the fuck are you doing?!?” Stiles demands, desperate, huffing at Derek and pushing him back with his considerable strength.

Derek cocks his head and looks at Stiles, takes a deep breath and lets it out and stops trying to crowd into Stiles’s space. “Stiles… I don’t _care_. I just don’t want to waste any more time.” Derek takes a half step back, makes Stiles meet his eyes. “I’m just so glad to see you again. And now I know why you ran. And I want you to know you don’t have to run any more.”

Stiles scrunches his eyes shut, thuds back against the wall. He looks up, and his face has a maelstrom of emotion passing through it.“You don’t understand, Derek. I could hurt you. Hell, I could _kill_ you. We feed on sex, on life energy. I try to stop it, and try to deny myself, but it’s what I _am,_ and I can’t fucking help it!” Stiles is crying now, and he punches out at Derek with his fists, hysterical. “Why do you have to be so goddamned perfect, and beautiful, and fucking _delicious_ , Derek, why now, when I can’t let myself go, when I can’t trust myself to let you touch me?”

Derek catches Stiles’s fists, tugs him by the wrists as his tirade winds down and pulls Stiles to him, his arms slipping around his narrow waist and holding Stiles to him as he sobs. He just hangs on, Stiles burying his face in Derek’s chest, and he rubs gentle circles on Stiles’s back as his sobs slowly subside. Stiles finally leans back, catches Derek’s eye and then looks away, embarrassed, but Derek touches the side of Stiles’s jaw and gently pulls him back to meet his gaze. “Stiles. Even if you don’t trust yourself, _I_ trust you,” he says softly. Stiles looks at him, his eyes bright and glinting, and he opens his mouth to speak when the sound of broken glass crunching underfoot makes them both whirl around toward the mouth of the alley.

Standing there, one hand on a hip, is a woman dressed in a long leather coat and pants. She waits a beat, then swings her hips into motion and stalks toward them, predatory and dangerous, leonine, her eyes hungry. As she walks toward them, her boots crunching on the detritus strewn across the ground, she brings her hands up and starts to clap slowly, the sound of each clap echoing off the walls around them. As she gets closer, each staccato sound makes Stiles flinch, and Derek, never taking his eyes off her, puts himself between her advancing figure and Stiles.

“Well, well,” she says when she is about ten feet away. She’s actually short and compact, but the unrelenting blackness of her attire makes her look taller than she is. Her hair is red and loose, streaming down her back, and she seems completely unafraid to be confronting two guys in a dark alley. She stops, watches them for a moment, then takes a deep breath. “My, what you two boys have gotten up to tonight. It called to me from all the way across the city.” She raises her face, sniffs the air. “ _Goodness._ You _have_ been a naughty, naughty boy,” she says, wagging one finger at Stiles as she makes a tsking sound. “All those people, lost to their base instincts, writhing against one another to seek their pleasure. All those people. How many were there? Fifty? A hundred? _More?_ ”

Stiles steps closer to Derek, a thin line of anger tempering his fear. “Go away,” he says quietly to the woman. Derek can’t tell if they know each other or not, and that’s the least of what he’s having trouble reading about the situation.

She laughs at Stiles’s suggestion. “ _Honey._ You can _not_ ring a bell like that and expect it to go unheard. There are eddies of desire blowing out across the city from this. What _did_ you do?”

“It was an accident,” Stiles mutters, but she just laughs.

“So was Sodom and Gomorrah, darling,” she says, her accent lilting and light, a marked contrast to her leather-clad appearance.

She takes a step forward. Derek feel Stiles stiffen behind him, so he puts one hand on Stiles’s arm and flashes his eyes red at the woman, a clear warning that Stiles belongs to _him_. She stops again, a look of surprise on her face. “A _werewolf?”_ she asks incredulously, her eyebrows high. She laughs then, sniffs, and laughs again. “Well no wonder, my little gumdrop! How _marvelous!”_ she says, clearly delighted _._

“Leave us alone, Siobhan,” Stiles says through gritted teeth. _Well, guess that answers the question of whether they know one another_ , Derek thinks, and he angles his way in between the two of them. 

“Succubus?” Derek asks Stiles quietly, never taking his eyes off the woman as she stands looking at them amused. 

“Yep.” 

“What does she want?” he asks, feeling the tension in Stiles pressing at him from behind.

The woman—Siobhan—laughs again, a clear, delightful sound. “What, _indeed,”_ she says. “How did the two of you get together?”

“What business of it is yours?” Derek retorts.

“Oh, it’s my business. Stiles is one of us, you see, and consorting with werewolves just isn’t _done._ Not to say we can’t make useful alliances, but come, now. It is a little déclassé.”

Derek feels like he’s stepped into the Twilight Zone, and given his life, that’s saying something. “Excuse me?” He’s pretty sure he was just insulted, but Stiles, still frozen behind him, isn’t helping him figure out what’s going on.

Siobhan starts pacing then, though Derek notices she is careful to maintain the same distance from them. “You can’t run around eating bunnies and tearing up all your clothes all the time and still be considered _civilized,_ ” she says. “We have a certain sensual decorum to maintain, after all,” she says, twirling her hair around her finger and arching her neck just so as she speaks. Derek can smell the same exotic scent of lust perfuming the night around her, the scent he smelled coming from Stiles earlier, but hers doesn’t have the undertones of _Stiles_ and _home,_ and so Derek waves a hand as if brushing it aside. Siobhan raises an eyebrow at that, pausing and cocking one hand on her hip. “Interesting…” she says quietly, as if to herself. 

Finally, behind him, he feels Stiles stir. He steps beside Derek, pushes out a breath. “Get the fuck out of here, Siobhan,” he says, and his voice is clear and strong. Derek still doesn’t take his eyes off her—she’s too dangerous to look away from—but he can feel Stiles’s quiet strength at his side, and it feels good. 

She narrows her eyes at Stiles. “I don’t think so, sweet. You just became infinitely more interesting. The things we could accomplish together…”

“No.” Stiles’s voice is firm and clear, and it is tinged with warning.

She smiles, but it’s not pretty. “So greedy, so intoxicating. You just reduced an entire club into a quivering mass of concupiscence. You’re coming with me.”

Derek feels his claws slip from the tips of his fingers, feels his teeth slowly fill and crowd his mouth. He lets out a low growl, a clear warning, and suddenly Siobhan swings into action, quick and darting, and she spins around to kick Derek across the cheekbone with her leather boot before rolling past him and popping up on her feet.

Derek looks at her, shakes his head once, smiles, and crouches.

He’s poised to leap at her when a dark shape goes flying through the alley at her. He thinks at first it’s Stiles, but when he sees the wood splinter around her figure, he realizes Stiles threw a discarded pallet at her. It catches her in the head, and she goes down with the splinters, rocking to a stop. Stiles grabs his hand and pulls him toward the mouth of the alley. “Let’s go!” he says, dragging Derek behind him. Derek is bewildered, and he just manages to swallow his wolf back down before they hit the street, letting Stiles pull him along at a run. Stiles is faster than he used to be, and they quickly sprint a couple of blocks before Stiles comes to a stop and flings a hand up for a cab.

“What the hell, Stiles?” Derek asks, looking back the way they came as Stiles hops up and down waving his arm. A cab finally signals and pulls over, and Stiles opens the door and pushes Derek inside. 

“Can you take us to the corner of Haight and Ashbury?” Stiles says to the driver, looking back the way they came as he closes the door. “And take the scenic route,” he says, tossing a wad of cash over the seat. 

The driver mutters something under his breath—Derek’s pretty sure he picks out the word “tourists”—but they pull out into traffic and head north. Derek looks over at Stiles expectantly, who collapses back into the seat and closes his eyes, reaching out for Derek’s hand across the seat. Derek sits there for a few blocks staring down at their intertwined fingers, and when he finally looks up, Stiles is watching him quietly. Derek crooks an eyebrow at Stiles, the question apparent, but Stiles just shakes his head a little and cocks his chin toward the driver. Derek nods, squeezes Stiles’s fingers, and settles back into the seat, watching as they head up Dolores Street and finally take a left on Market. “Well, you did say scenic,” he says quietly, and Stiles huffs a small laugh.

They’re quiet for the rest of the drive, and Stiles slides more cash to the driver when they reach Haight. “We weren’t here,” he says, and the driver nods, used to the crazy people in the area. Stiles steps out of the car and waits for Derek, and Derek sees Stiles sniffing what’s around them. “Wait here,” he asks, and Derek nods, willing to go along with whatever Stiles has planned, trusting Stiles to know what he’s doing.

After all, he always did trust Stiles. He just didn’t trust himself.

Stiles disappears into one of the dozen head shops along the block that sells tie dye and hemp bags and the particular short-sighted nostalgia of a 1960s dream. Derek wonders, but he waits, and in just a few minutes Stiles is back with a bag that reeks of incense and two scarves that are practically dripping with patchouli. He wraps a scarf around each of them, hands Derek some incense, and then nods up the street. Derek stuffs some of the incense in each pocket and turns to follow Stiles, his nose tickling with the hippie onslaught to his senses.

They go a few blocks before Stiles finally answers the unasked question. “We’re going to my place,” he says.

“Mine was closer, “ Derek says softly.

“I didn’t want her—anyone—to trace our scents back to your house. It’s me they’ll be looking for.”

“And why is that, exactly?” Derek asks. “I didn’t understand a whole lot of what happened tonight, and I was kind of hoping you still get off on being an insufferable know-it-all and you’d explain it.”

Stiles laughs, grabs Derek’s hand and pulls him left across the street. “The club. I…well, that was my fault.”

“You had some help,” Derek points out.

“That I did, big guy. That I did.” Stiles sighs. “I got out of control.” He grows silent as they catch up to another couple walking hand in hand, and they step around them and head on down the block. “We’re almost there,” he says quietly, as if imploring Derek to be patient. Soon Stiles tugs him over to a set of gray steps. “This is me. 720.” It’s narrow in the way that only houses in San Francisco are narrow, tidy gray and white with a turret sitting over the front door. Stiles heads up the stairs and shoves a key into the lock, drapes his scarf over the porch railing and motions for Derek to come in with a nod of his head. Derek happily loses the scarf as well and steps into the house, Stiles following behind him and locking the door behind him with two deadbolts and a chain.

He finds himself in Stiles’s living room and can’t help but walk around it, looking at things. It’s painted a dark navy with one lighter gray wall, and it feels masculine and comfortable with solid furniture, leather club chairs and a canvas couch and a coffee table made of concrete and some kind of industrial pipe. There’s a giant shelf full of books along one wall, and there’s framed art and posters hanging around, too. He looks at one blown-up print, the cover of a book Derek had worked on. He points to it, says,”Uh, I edited that,” and Stiles looks at him blankly for a moment before bursting into laughter. “What?” Derek asks.

“That’s my favorite book cover I’ve designed,” he says, laughing. Derek, catching the joke, laughs too. “What are the fucking _odds_ ,” Stiles says, holding his midsection. Derek steps over to him and wraps his arms around Stiles, smiling at him, bright and happy, and Stiles reaches up to touch the side of his face as if in wonder. “You’re really here. Amidst all my things. You’re not… a mirage, or whatever.”

Derek smiles at him softly. He knows exactly what Stiles means, because it’s the same way he felt when he saw Stiles standing in his house, beautifully out of context. He puts his palm flat over Stiles’s heart and holds it there, feeling the steady thrum up through his fingertips. “I’m here. And I’m glad to be here.” Stiles closes the gap between them this time, brushes his lips gently across Derek’s and then kisses him deeper, their tongues darting out simultaneously to tangle together. Stiles slides his hand up the back of Derek’s shirt, his palm splayed against the hot skin over Derek’s spine. They crowd closer into one another, but when their hips press together, Stiles groans. 

“Ugh. I forgot I came in my pants earlier,” he says, reaching down to adjust himself inside his jeans. 

“Yeah, so did I,” Derek laughs.

“Shower?” Stiles asks, and Derek nods. “I’ll explain everything after, okay? Honestly.”

“That’s good enough for me,” Derek says, peeling Stiles out of his clothes where he stands. Stiles returns the favor, and they pause, drinking in one another’s bodies carved out of the darkness by the lamplight. “I want to kiss every bit of ink on you, catalogue it all with my mouth,” Derek says, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I want to learn your body like braille,” Stiles whispers back, “want to know every look that can ever cross your face when you come.”

Derek steps close to Stiles, their nude bodies only a hairsbreadth apart. He can feel their warmth mingling in the narrow space between them.

“Well,” Derek says with a mischievous smile, “we better get started.”

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, since I have 8 million other things to be doing, I decided it was high time I procrastinate properly by writing on this some more. I SWEAR I HAVE AN END IN SIGHT. And also fucking. Honest to goodness fucking! #fucking!

Naked, Stiles leads Derek upstairs in the dark, and Derek shamelessly watches Stiles’s ass as he climbs the steps. Stiles looks back and notices Derek’s ogling and he laughs, but he also puts some extra sway in his step. Once they hit the landing Stiles pulls him into an overlarge, well-appointed bathroom and fiddles with a slider on the wall, bringing the lights up to a very soft amber glow. Turning to kiss Derek, he murmurs, “Shower or bath?”

Derek’s brain almost short circuits at the filthy possibilities for each that immediately leap to mind, but he thinks the tiled shower would be a better option, so he nudges Stiles that direction while running his hands down Stiles’s back and over his ass, grasping him and pulling their hips together. Stiles laughs again and reaches in to turn on the shower, then spins Derek back against the wall, kissing him hard, his hands ghosting down Derek’s chest and stomach as they wait for the water to warm up. Once it’s warm enough, Stiles steps under the spray and holds his hand out to Derek, who doesn’t hesitate but steps right in. Grasping Stiles’s face delicately between his hands, Derek kisses him softly and slowly, just lips at first but then the eventual tiny touches of tongue giving way to the slide of their mouths against one another. They’re both hard again, but this feels less desperate, yet somehow more profound. Their hands wander, soft caresses across one another’s bodies, the wet slide of skin under fingertips and lips invisibly but indelibly branding one another. 

Not forgetting why they’re here, Derek reaches behind Stiles and grabs some body wash from the alcove behind him, and squirting some out into his palm, he begins to massage Stiles’s shoulders, turns him away to face the wall and soaps down his back, his fingers working the tight muscles along his spine and straying across the artwork inked into his skin. Stiles lets out a soft sigh as Derek digs his thumbs into the muscles just above his ass, and Stiles leans forward, bracing himself against the tile. Derek soaps his way downward, his fingertips kneading Stiles’s ass, his thumb sliding down Stiles’s crack, tracing across the puckered skin, no pressure but just a gentle slide, eased by the suds. Stiles makes a soft whimpering noise and presses himself back into Derek’s hand, so he presses his thumb against Stiles’s hole again as he reaches around with his free hand to run his fingertips up Stiles’s cock, which is hard and twitching and slapping against his own belly. Stiles shudders at the dual sensations, and he presses back against Derek’s thumb and then, as he presses forward, Derek fists his cock so that Stiles is pushing himself through the tight circle of Derek’s hand as his hips thrust forward. Stiles presses back again, Derek’s thumb breaching him this time, and then forward again, fucking back and forth in the cage of Derek’s arms. Stiles is gasping and shuddering, but after a few moments he stills himself, swallows hard, and turns in Derek’s arms. 

“That feels amazing, Derek…but you’re gonna make me come, and I don’t want to.”

“But I want to make you come. A lot. Preferably with my name on your lips,” Derek whispers against Stiles’s neck.

Stiles smiles but he shakes his head. “Not yet. You first,” he says, and Derek feels the words rumble though Stiles’s chest. Stiles pushes him back, grabs the shower gel as well, and begins soaping Derek’s body, tracing the lines of muscles down his torso, dragging his fingertips down the V that leads to Derek’s cock. Stiles soaps him there was well, sliding up the curve of Derek’s cock with a too-loose fist, running his fingers through the soft thatch of pubic hair, massaging his balls, tugging them gently away from his body as Derek drops his head back and groans. Stiles turns him and tenderly soaps his back as well, pausing to lick his way across Derek’s triskele tattoo and brushing the edge of his teeth across the jut of Derek’s shoulderblade, then washing down his spine and over the swell of Derek’s ass as well, his fingertips sliding though the cleft, the pad of one finger pressing against Derek’s hole. 

Derek lets out a shuddering breath. “Please,” he says, caught somewhere between a plea and a whine. Derek widens his stance and Stiles mouths at Derek’s shoulder as he presses into him, his finger breaching that first ring of muscle, and Derek bites back the howl that wants to break free of his throat. “More,” he growls instead, pushing his hips back into Stiles’s finger, and Stiles obliges, fucking him with one finger, and then two. Derek is panting, his forearms braced agains the wall and his balls tight against his body, and Stiles pulls his fingers free, spinning Derek around and dropping to his knees before he has time to protest.

Stiles pushes Derek’s knees apart and, using one hand to grasp his cock while slipping his other between Derek’s legs to resume fingering him, he swallows Derek’s cock down in one slow motion, hollowing his cheeks and flicking his tongue at the underside as he slides Derek down his throat. The water sluices down Derek’s body and falls all over Stiles’s upturned face, so Derek reaches up and shifts the shower head away, wanting to see Stiles’s eyes. 

As Stiles pulls off, he looks up at Derek, and beneath his water-beaded eyelashes, Stiles’s eyes have gone fully black again. Derek just reaches down and gently strokes the side of Stiles’s cheek, runs his fingers along the curve of his ear. “You’re so beautiful, Stiles, just the way you are,” he says softly, and Stiles squeezes his cock and holds Derek’s gaze as he takes Derek back in his mouth, thrusting two fingers inside him as he does so. It’s just this side of not slick enough, but Derek can feel the heat of Stiles’s fingers inside him and wouldn’t stop it for the world. Derek watches Stiles, refusing to look away even as he pants and gasps and feels like his nerves are short circuiting. Stiles settles into a relentless rhythm, filling him and enveloping him, their eyes never leaving one another, and after what Derek thinks may have been minutes or may have been hours, he feels his orgasm rushing its way up through his body like the videos he has seen of nuclear explosions, a cloud of light punching up through his limbs and out through his dick, and with only a moment of warning and a cry, he comes with Stiles’s mouth wrapped around him. Stiles swallows every pulse, Derek’s body convulsing around Stiles’s fingers and spilling down his throat, and Derek watches Stiles’s eyes the whole time, and it’s way beyond any sort of intimacy he’s ever known, even if Stiles’s eyes are whirling black galaxies.

Stiles climbs up from the tiled floor, never dropping Derek’s gaze, and when he is close enough, Derek reaches out for him, gently strokes his hand down the side of Stiles’s face, along his neck and down across the swirling tattoos across his shoulder. He steps forward and catches Stiles in a kiss, soft and gentle at first, and then probing, his tongue sweeping across Stiles’s, kissing the taste of himself from Stiles’s mouth to search for the taste that is _Stiles_ and _home._

Derek reaches behind them to turn off the shower and steps out, grabbing a towel and handing it to Stiles before grabbing one for himself. They towel off in an anticipatory silence, Stiles’s stiff cock still an exclamation between them. Derek leans back against the sink and looks his fill as Stiles dries off and runs the towel over his hair. The tattoos dip down below Stiles’s waistline on one side, ending just shy of the V that embraces the long, graceful arch of his cock as it lies against his stomach. Though he isn’t as thick as Derek, he’s longer, and cut, and mouthwatering. Derek desperately wants to touch him.

“What?” Stiles asks, one eyebrow raised. Derek notices his eyes are back to normal, though his pupils are still wide and dark.

“Just enjoying looking at you,” Derek says, smiling.

Stiles smiles back earnestly. “See anything you like?” he asks in a light tone.

Derek lets the heat he feels bleed into his eyes and he knows they flash red. He drops his towel as his own cock fills again, and he stands there looking at Stiles; Stiles’s gaze jumps up and down between meeting his eyes and watching Derek fill out again, hard and full. “Yeah,” Derek says, his voice low. “I do.” He steps across to Stiles, stopping just inches away, and takes the towel from him and drops it on the floor, saying, “Now… which one of these other rooms has a bed in it?”

“Damn, that werewolf refractory period is seriously impressive,” Stiles says breathily.

“I can do this all night, Stiles,” he says, and Stiles looks up at him, his mouth open. “Over and over.” He can see the wheels turningbehind Stiles’s eyes as he processes this information. Derek is done waiting though, so he bends down and picks Stiles up easily, holding him by the ass and wrapping his legs around his waist. Stiles makes an indignant noise of surprise—or possibly protest—but Derek squeezes Stiles’s ass and raises his eyebrows in question. Derek walks out into the hall and despite his shocked expression, Stiles has enough wits about him to jerk his head toward the door opposite the bathroom. 

Derek carries Stiles in and sets him down on the tall bed, climbing up as well to cover Stiles’s body with his own. The room is illuminated by the warmth of streetlights and the silvery touch of moonlight streaming in the windows through gauzy curtains, and it slips across the planes and angles of Stiles’s body, outlining his features in light and shadow. Derek licks across his body, following the kiss of light over his skin, dragging his stubble across the flat of his chest, setting the edge of his teeth against Stiles’s nipples. He relishes the sound Stiles makes when he does that, a sharp gasp followed by a soft moan as he sucks away the sting of teeth. He traces his fingertips over Stiles’s ribs, kisses his way down to his navel and then across to his hip, drags his nails lightly across Stiles’s thighs. He smells the most _Stiles_ here, in the crease of his thighs, in the short, coarse hair around the base of his cock, and Derek breathes in this smell: _sex_ , yes, but also _home_ and something that makes his heart quake like _love._ Finally Derek runs his tongue up the length of Stiles’s cock, around the crown, savoring the taste of _Stiles_ in the precome leaking from the slit, and as he slides the wet heat of his mouth over the head, Stiles fists the duvet under him and cries out Derek’s name. 

As he works his mouth up and down the hot length of Stiles, Derek enjoys the way Stiles is writhing under him, the soft stream of curses and gasps punctuated with his name that fall from his lips. He smiles as he takes Stiles as deep as he can manage, but as he bottoms out, Stiles slides a hand into his hair, pulling Derek off of him with a quiet, panicked litany of “No no no, Derek, no…”. 

“Stiles. What’s wrong?” Derek asks, leaning up to see Stiles’s face. But Stiles has one arm thrown over his eyes, his breath punching out of him in too-quick pants. Derek climbs up Stiles’s body, gently tugs at his wrists until Stiles will look at him. “What’s going on?” he asks Stiles quietly, listening for the rabbit-like beat of his heart to slow down. He rubs small circles into the skin of Stiles’s wrists where he has them pinned above his head, and it seems to calm him.

“Fuck, Derek, I’m sorry… You feel so fucking good. Like everything I ever hoped. I just don’t know if I can hold myself back from feeding on you.” Stiles ducks his head to the side to hide his eyes, but Derek grasps his jaw and turns him back to face him. 

“Stiles. I’m a werewolf.”

“I know, Derek.”

“That means I have an overabundance of energy,” he says patiently.

Stiles looks at him then, the slow dawn of awareness spreading across his features.”You have an overabundance of energy,” Stiles echoes. Derek can see hope rising, and then falling as Stiles shakes his head. “No, you have no idea, I could hurt you, I could weaken you or even kill you…”

Derek sits up and pulls Stiles with him. “Look, Stiles, you’re usually smarter than this. But you’ve seen the amount of damage I can heal. When an incubus feeds on someone and they take too much, what happens?”

Stiles grimaces, looks away. “They die.”

“But from what?” Derek asks, pressing the issue, willing Stiles to see. 

“Heart failure, usually. It’s why it’s safer to feed in crowds, like at the club earlier. The impact gets spread around and doesn’t hit any one person as hard.”

“What causes the heart failure, Stiles?” he asks gently.

Stiles looks down, but his eyes are unfocused, like he isn’t seeing what’s in front of him. “An overload of endorphins, the release of so much oxytocin, a flood of testosterone and adrenaline…it’s like a chemical bomb. It causes the heart to fail, or sometimes an aneurysm.” 

Derek shuffles forward, crowds into Stiles’s space, and makes him meet his eyes. “That’s not really even damage. Those are all things I can withstand. A lot. And often.” He listens as Stiles’s breath stops, watches as his pupils dilate, smells the sunshiny wash of hope that spills off of him. Stiles’s mouth is open again, the tip of his tongue pressed to his teeth, and Derek can practically hear the gears turning in Stiles’s head.

“But… how do you know?” Stiles asks, clearly reluctant to let the solution be so easy. 

“Easy. My great-great grandmother on my father’s side was a succubus,” he says, enjoying all too much the way Stiles’s eyes go wide and his mouth makes an O in shock. “They had a long and happy life together, by all accounts.”

Now Stiles is shaking his head. “No. No way. You heard Siobhan earlier in that alley. Incubi and succubi don’t consort with werewolves. Some ancient vendetta or something.”

“Sorry,” Derek says, smiling, and not sorry at all. “Maybe not usually, but it has happened, and it was apparently amazing enough to produce 14 children.”

At this, Stiles finally laughs. He runs his hand through his hair and back across his neck, that old familiar gesture that warms Derek in a spot in his chest in which he suspects his heart resides. 

“Fuck,” Stiles mutters, almost as if to himself. “No way it can be that simple,” he says, looking at Derek and grasping his forearm, hope and fear clearly battling it out inside him.

Derek crawls into Stiles’s lap, straddling him and rubbing his cock against Stiles’s, enjoying the tell-tale groan that slips from Stiles’s throat. “Well then, Stiles… fuck me and let’s find out.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is essentially just 2800 words of porn.  
> I regret nothing.

Stiles stares at Derek for a moment with his mouth open, his eyes wide, and then he swings into action, surging forward to kiss Derek while he flips both of them and pins Derek under him. 

Derek huffs a laugh. “I guess your induction into the supernatural club explains the extra strength and speed,” he mutters as he kisses his way down Stiles’s neck, running his lips across the hollow of Stiles’s throat. Stiles huffs a quick laugh as well and grabs Derek by the wrists, pinning them down on either side of his head, putting enough pressure there that Derek would have to really struggle to get away. Not that he wants to. Stiles looks so happy, the corners of his lips upturned as he looks down at Derek spread under him. Derek can feel Stiles growing hard against him again, and he rolls his hips up into him, pushing up against Stiles’s grip on his wrists just a little. Stiles’s eyes widen and he smiles, laughs a little, and presses back down on Derek’s wrists, dropping his lips to Derek’s neck, kissing his way up and then rolling Derek’s earlobe lightly between his teeth. Derek moans a little and hitches one leg up over Stiles, pulling their bodies together as best he can when pinned down like this. 

“Alexa, play some sexy music,” Stiles calls out to the room, and sure enough, something low and trip-hoppy starts playing softly from a speaker across the room. Coupled with the feel of Stiles’s lips against his skin, Derek loses himself to the rhythm of it. Stiles lets loose a throaty groan of his own and whispers to Derek, “What do you want, Der?”, his breath tickling Derek’s neck, which makes Derek’s breath catch. 

“Fuck, Stiles. I want you inside me.”

“Yeah?” Stiles asks, his voice punching out of him.

“Yes. _Fuck,”_ Derek says, trying to rub himself against Stiles, to get some friction where Stiles’s hips are still against him, pinning him in place. Stiles just smiles at him and doesn’t let him move, and Derek growls. “Dammit, Stiles. Fuck me.”

Stiles grins at him, a big, shit-eating grin. “Ask me nicely,” he says, his eyes flashing.

Derek growls again, tries to push up against Stiles again, but Stiles is strong and isn’t letting it happen. Derek feels the need to struggle against being held down, and squirms for a moment, but he looks at Stiles, waiting patiently with a big smile, and in that moment he realizes he would give Stiles anything he wanted, anything he needed. He relaxes back against the bed, meeting Stiles’s eyes. “Stiles… please, fuck me,” he says softly, watching the way the breath rushes out of him.

“Again,” Stiles answers quietly, his lips remaining parted and his tongue darting out to lick them. 

Derek swallows. He may be better than he used to, but using his words still isn’t his favorite thing. But he sees something pleading on Stiles’s face, and knows its important that Stiles hears just how much he wants him. Things have flipped from playful to serious in just a few seconds, but he looks Stiles in the eyes and does as he’s told. “Please, Stiles. Please. Fuck me. I want you inside me so much,” he says quietly, leaning up to kiss Stiles’s chin. “I want you to open me up,” he whispers, kissing around to the side of Stiles’s jaw, enjoying the rasp of his stubble on his tongue. “I want to feel those long fingers of yours inside me, and then—“ He pauses, rolling Stiles’s ear between his teeth in return before murmuring throatily in Stiles’s ear, “and then I want you to put your beautiful cock inside me, and pound me into this mattress until we both come. That’s what I want. _Please._ ”

Stiles shudders, finally rolls his hips against Derek in a filthy way, and meets Derek’s gaze. “All you had to do was ask,” he says gently, before flashing a quick smile and leaning down to kiss Derek as filthily as that hip roll had promised, wet and deep and dirty, tongues tangling and teeth grazing. Stiles unpins Derek’s wrists and leans over Derek to grab lube from the nightstand. He drops it on the bed and kisses his way down Derek’s chest, skating his palms across his shoulders and down his sides, his mouth latching onto a nipple while his fingers scratch through Derek’s chest hair. Derek moans a little, runs his hand through Stiles’s hair, and as Stiles bites down gently he hisses out a choked, “ _Fuck, yes,”_ arching up into him and fisting his hand in Stiles’s hair.

“You smell so good, Der,” Stiles says against his skin, rubbing his face across Derek’s stomach, his fingertips dragging down Derek’s hips. He dips his tongue into Derek’s navel, kisses his way down the line of hair leading to the jut of his hard cock, and he slides the foreskin back and flicks his tongue out against the crown, pulling a moan from Derek. Stiles leans back a tiny bit and says,”Flip over so I can get my mouth on that gorgeous ass of yours,” and Derek feels gut-punched, but he rolls over like he’s told and lets Stiles manhandle him into the position he wants, knees under him and shoulders down on the bed. 

He’s so open and exposed, and he feels unsettled, but almost as if Stiles can sense it, he reaches out and smooths his hand down Derek’s back, across the curve of his butt, and he presses his lips to the dips just above his waist, running his mouth over the soft skin and setting the edge of his teeth against the swell of Derek’s left ass cheek. Derek feels hot all over, way too keyed up already, and he wants Stiles to touch him everywhere. Derek moans again, and Stiles uses his thumbs to press Derek open and lightly brushes his tongue along Derek’s cleft. Derek hisses and arches his back, his hands gripping around the head board so hard the metal creaks. Liking this reaction, Stiles again licks the lightest stripe up Derek’s body, from his balls up and across his hole. Derek tries to lean back against Stiles, to push back into the touch, but Stiles keeps him in place with his hands.

Derek makes a frustrated noise.“Fuck, Stiles, stop teasing me,” he grits out.

Stiles makes a noise that sounds like a choked-off laugh. “Shoulda known you’d be a pushy bottom,” he teases Derek, blowing his hot breath across Derek’s hole. 

Derek shudders, and then growls, looking back over his shoulder and flashing red eyes at Stiles. “I swear to god, Stiles, if you don’t get your mouth or your fingers or _something_ on me in the next ten seconds, I am going to _lose my mind_.”

“Fuck, that shouldn’t be as hot as it is,” Stiles huffs, and then he leans in and runs the flat of his tongue across Derek, and Derek just _keens,_ the sensation of Stiles licking him there making his brain short circuit and his muscles all involuntarily tighten. Stiles hums against him, the vibrations from his mouth echoing up through Derek’s body, and then he points his tongue and begins to work it into Derek, and Derek isn’t sure if he wants to shout, sob, or laugh. Instead he makes a choked noise somewhere in between all three, which only eggs Stiles on. He spears Derek with his tongue, revels in the sounds Derek is making, and, groping for the lube he’d tossed on the bed earlier, thumbs it open and squirts some on his fingers. He pulls back enough to start working his index finger into Derek, the lube slicking the way, and Derek is making these amazing noises, little aborted whimpers and moans, hisses interspersed with _yes_ and _fuck_ and _Stiles._ Stiles could listen to this all day, but he also really wants to put his dick inside Derek, so he begins to work another finger into Derek and then leans back in to get his tongue in on the action as well. He moans against Derek’s body, and as his two fingers bottom out and he scissors them, he says, “Mmm, butterscotch,” and slides the pad of his finger across Derek’s prostate.

Derek shouts and writhes, the metal of the bed creaking again, and he asks in a breathy voice, “What?”

“Butterscotch,” Stiles says, and Derek can hear the smile in it. “The lube is flavored. And delicious,” he says, working his fingers in and out of Derek and then again brushing across his prostate.

“Stiles, dammit, I’m ready, please. I _need_ you,” Derek says, half sobbing, desperation in his voice.

“Derek, It’s been a long time since I’ve even had sex with anyone for fear of, you know, _killing them,_ so you will just have to lay there and take it and let me enjoy myself, okay?” he says, twisting his fingers.

Derek moans a little and then laughs, and grits out, “Fine,” settling himself some and trying to stay still. Stiles pulls his fingers out and then adds a third, working them into Derek slowly, watching the way he takes it so beautifully. 

“You take it so beautifully, Derek,” he says, always willing to state the obvious. Stiles is kissing every part of Derek he can get his mouth on, slowly pumping his fingers in and out, brushing over Derek’s prostate on every other stroke, and Derek is having a hard time staying still. He’s panting and writhing, canting his hips looking for friction that’s not there. His balls are tight against his body, and Stiles runs his mouth over them, flicks his tongue against the skin just behind them and sucks lightly there. Derek makes a noise that’s caught somewhere between a moan and a growl. “Could you come just like this, Derek?” he asks breathily, “Could you come on just my fingers?” He wiggles them for emphasis and Derek grits his teeth.

“Yes, Stiles, I could,” Derek bites out, the veins on the back of his hands standing out where he is gripping the bed posts. 

Stiles makes a delighted noise, and huffs out, “Show me” on a breath. He smacks Derek’s ass once with his free hand, and then quirks his fingers, pressing them just to the right spot and holding them there, and Derek goes rigid and then, with Stiles’s name spilling from his lips, he comes, his ass clamping down around Stiles’s fingers and striping the duvet with pulse after pulse of cum. 

“God _damn_ , Derek, that is the most beautiful fucking thing I’ve ever seen,” he says, working Derek through the aftershocks before slowly pulling his fingers out. Derek whines softly, but Stiles just grabs him by the hips and flips him easily. 

“Fuck,” Derek says, still panting. He rubs his hand across his face, his mouth open as he watches Stiles settle between his legs. “S’weird that you’re so strong,” he offers, but not as though it’s a complaint. 

“Benefit to my incubusness,” Stiles says, leaning down to catch Derek’s mouth with his, lips sliding across Derek’s as he huffs a laugh. They kiss for a few minutes, hands roaming across one another’s bodies, nails raking and fingertips caressing the topography of each other. He runs his fingertips across the swirls of color in Stiles’s skin, tracing the whorls of the ink. Stiles shudders and sighs, nestles in and kisses Derek’s shoulders and collarbone, then kissing his way up Derek’s neck until Derek grabs his jaw and sets their mouths together again, tongues thrusting and teeth clicking against one another. When he pulls back to catch his breath, he sees that Stiles’s eyes have gone black again, and Derek can also see his cock, hard and leaking between them. He runs his hands down Stiles’s back, over the swell of his buttocks, grabbing him by the ass and pressing them together. Stiles moans a little, his eyes fluttering closed, and Derek is already growing hard again. Stiles bites his own kiss-swollen lip and rolls their hips together again. “Wow, you weren’t kidding about that werewolf refractory period,” he huffs, taking both of their cocks in one of his hands and pumping them together, his long fingers elegant against their hot skin. 

Derek catches Stiles’s gaze, and Stiles tries to turn his head, closing his eyes. Derek grabs him by the jaw again and pulls his face back to him. “Look at me, Stiles,” he asks in a low voice, and Stiles reluctantly opens his eyes. Derek meets his gaze and leans up, pressing a searing kiss to Stiles’s mouth. “Stiles, please. I want to feel you inside me,” Derek says.

Stiles immediately grins and says in a rush, “Yeah, yes, let’s do that,” leaning down to kiss Derek again. He pulls back. “Uh, condom?” he asks, one eyebrow quirked.

“Werewolf,” Derek reminds him.

“Gotcha,” Stiles laughs, dragging his hands down Derek’s torso, fingertips bumping along the ridges of his abs. Derek reaches out beside them and grabs the tube of lube, flicks it open and reaches out to take Stiles in his hand, pumping him in his now-slick grip a few times. He catches the precome leaking from Stiles’s dick on the tip of his finger and then slips it into his mouth, the taste of Stiles swirling alongside the taste of butterscotch. He licks it off his finger, an exaggerated show, and Stiles draws a ragged breath, letting out a low moan, and he sits back, kneeling between Derek’s legs. “God, you’re a wet dream,” he murmurs. Derek makes an impatient noise and wraps an angle around Stiles’s hip, urging him forward. Stiles takes himself in hand and lines himself up, but pauses. “You’re sure?” he asks Derek one last time.

Derek fists his own hard cock once and tells Stiles, “Fuck me, Stiles.” Finally taking him at his word, Stiles presses his hips forward, breaching the first ring of muscle and pressing forward so slowly that when he finally bottoms out and takes a moment to collect himself, Derek lets out a shuddering breath. “ _Finally_ ,” Derek says, and at that Stiles pulls out almost all the way and then slides back in, making room for himself inside Derek, who, with each thrust, is making these ungodly noises of delight. Stiles grabs Derek’s thighs and starts working himself in and out of Derek’s body with intent, setting a pace just this side of brutal, and he folds Derek’s knees back toward his chest, working himself in an out and loving the way that Derek has lost his words again, reveling in the soft moans and grunts that are punching out of him with every stroke. Stiles thrusts into him once more and there is suddenly a popping noise as Derek pulls loose one of the bed railings. “Fuck, I’m sorry, I just…” he huffs out, tossing it to the floor.

“So don’t care,” Stiles says, never missing a beat, his hips snapping in rhythm to the music, hitting places deep inside Derek. 

“What are you…what is happening? Derek says, his voice filled with a touch of wonder.

“It’s me,” Stiles answers in between thrusts. “What does it feel like?”

Derek half-laughs, and then gasps. “It’s… it’s like my whole body feels like it’s being stroked. Or… shit, I don’t know, I’m… _tingling,_ ” he says, his hands moving to Stiles’s hips.

“That’s the incubus benefit,” Stiles says, and then he grabs Derek and flips them again. “I want to watch you ride me, Der,” he says, stretching out underneath him. Derek is glad to oblige, and he rolls his hips, watching Stiles. He feels like his blood is made of something fizzy, like tiny bubbles of pleasure are spreading throughout his limbs, radiating outward from where he and Stiles are joined. 

“Fuck, Stiles, you feel so fucking good,” he breathes, and Stiles grabs his hips and guides him as Derek’s rhythm starts to falter. Derek is leaning so that each rise and fall brushes Stiles’s cock across his prostate, and he feels like the breath has been wrung out of him as Stiles holds him and fucks up into him, and Derek doesn’t explode so much as fall over the edge of himself into what seems like a bottomless cavern of pleasure. His eyes are squeezed shut but he can feel his cum striping both his chest and Stiles’s, and he’s dimly aware that Stiles too is coming, yelling his name as he thrusts one last time into Derek and spills himself, and Derek swears he can feel the heat of it inside him. Everything smells like _them_ and _sex_ and _home_ , and Derek leans down to kiss Stiles, needing somewhere to spill all this buzzing energy and joy that is flooding his consciousness. Stiles takes it all, holds Derek against his own kiss-swollen lips, and drinks down Derek’s pleasure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been so long since I updated. Many big life changes--started grad school, moved to a new city, various other life traumas and challenges.   
> But there should be one more chapter and this will finally be marked off my big to-do list in the sky.


End file.
